


Frat Reincarnation AU

by circadian_rythm, Feynite, LycheePit, scurvaliciousbay, SeleneLavellan



Series: Frat AU [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Multi, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 14:58:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 185,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17003847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circadian_rythm/pseuds/circadian_rythm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LycheePit/pseuds/LycheePit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scurvaliciousbay/pseuds/scurvaliciousbay, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeleneLavellan/pseuds/SeleneLavellan
Summary: The inevitable downsides of immortality...





	1. The First One

In the end, it’s Uthvir who finds the first one.

They’re out, at night, gathering up bits of sticks and things because Thenvunin bequeathed them his damn nightmare bird when he died, and the creature has been pining again of late. And for some  _unfathomable_  reason, whenever the bird pines for Thenvunin, Uthvir finds themselves propelled into an undeniable state of empathy.

So.

Sticks.

Sticks which Screecher uses to keep building that sprawling nest that’s taken up most of the back garden of Mirena’s old house, by now. That’s the only property Uthvir has managed to keep their hands on, thanks to loopholes and restrictions in both national and local residential laws. They’ve had to pretend to be their own descendant to manage it, but these days, that’s almost not unnerving anymore.

The park they choose is a large one, but not the city’s official park. It’s less garden-like than most, though, designed to be durable enough to handle hordes of screaming children during the day. Old enough that Uthvir could probably remember bringing Kel here, if they would let themselves. The trees are massive, some hollow, with thick branches that shield the central playground from view of the surrounding buildings. Insects chirp, frogs scream, and the air feels heavy from the recent rain.

There’s a homeless man on one of the park benches.

Vagrancy laws have been getting… very  _restrictive_  in the city of late. Uthvir is surprised by the sight, not because Arlathan wants for homeless these days, but because this is the upper city. It’s almost midnight. They would have expected some fretful, wealthy local to have spotted him and reported it by now; or for one of the local law enforcement officers to do what they seem to relish, and take the opportunity to haul the vagrant off.

That’s when they notice the faint traces of magic, though.

Camouflage?

They pause, interested now. Camouflage good enough to conceal them from  _most_ , but not from Fear, who, they realize, is the one actually perceiving the figure’s presence.

_Familiar,_  Fear informs them. Warily, of course.

Uthvir’s gaze sharpens, and their partner eases forward enough that they can see even better than usual through the combined darkness and spells. The lump of a figure is young, they realize. There’s a battered backpack beneath the bench he’s chosen, and he’s curled up on himself. Black and blue, by the looks of it. They can see distinctive discolouration on the skin of his face and hands. His hair is dark; long, and curling towards the ends. They don’t recognize him, though.

Not at first.

Not until they make a decision, and venture forward. Kicking the bench to startle him awake. Then blue eyes land on them, and there’s something in his face, but more pressingly, something in  _him_ that has Fear stilling for a moment. And then reaching out, plucking at the fear that surges briefly in the man.

The young man.

_Very_  young man.

Uthvir remembers teenagers cluttering their living room, devouring pizzas, chattering and pointing excitedly at the movie marathon blaring across the screen. Sprawling over furniture and over one another, jumbles of limbs and voices and warm, happy contentment.

They shake the errant thought away.

It has been a long time.

And this man is probably not  _that_  young, though he is certainly skinny, and afraid. Nebulous, ill-defined fears; the terror of being awoken in a strange place by an unknown person, edged with just enough familiarity that Uthvir supposes he`s suffered his fair share of rude, unexpected awakenings.`

“It’s illegal to sleep here, you know,” they offer, carefully. Keeping their voice neutral, their expression calculating as Fear presses in, waiting to see what they can pick up.

The young man blinks.

“I am aware,” he replies, and  _oh._  The switch flicks. The look is different but the voice is the same, and Fear can see him properly now that his mind’s not scattered off in dreams. Fear can  _see him,_  and the both of them are a little surprised to realize that the recognition they are capable of transcends lifetimes, it seems.

Because this is Dirthamen.

Selene’s Dirthamen. Dirthamen who was Uthvir’s unlikely friend, as it happened. Who was uncle to their daughters and father to their nephews, the black sheep of the Evanuris family; though no more, it seems, because obviously even this is Dirthamen, this is a new start for him.

And not an auspicious one, by all evidence.

“Come with me,” Uthvir says, before they can really consider that they aren’t in much of a position to demand anything from strangers on park benches. They’re no public authority, no police officer. But, worryingly, the young man just slides off of the bench and picks up his bag, and falls into step alongside of them.

Hmm.

He is frightened. He is wondering if someone sent Uthvir, if they found out… found out what? Fear risks pressing a little closer. Frightened that his plan, of some kind, has been discovered. Something he did. With his brother? To his brother?

Ugh.

Falon’Din.

Of course the universe would not be so kind as to untether  _that_  connection.

“What’s your name?” Uthvir asks.

The young man glances at him. Contemplates running. But he is too afraid to, in the end. Not too afraid to try, they don’t think; but too afraid that if he succeeded, he would just end up in the same straights he’s currently in. He’s almost ready to give up his fear of being caught, as his fear of not surviving outweighs his concern over the consequences. But it is a close margin between them.

“…Falon’Din,” the young man finally supplies.

Uthvir snorts.

“You’re not Falon’Din,” they say. Their latest rescue lets out a long sigh.

“I take it the Institute hired you?” he replies. “How did they find out?”

“How do you suppose?” Uthvir counters.

The young man falls quiet enough that they think he hasn’t taken the bait. But his expression is contemplative, and they remember, then, how it often takes Dirthamen a moment to sort through his thoughts. Some of his corporate rivals had once taken him for  _slow,_  they recall. Because he didn’t fire off words a mile a minute, because he would sit and watch proceedings with that blank expression on his face.

Taking everything in.

The Dirthamen Uthvir recalls would have figured out the trap and kept his information close by. But this one is young, and terrified.

“My brother failed to keep a low profile,” he concludes.

“Never was his strong suit,” Uthvir replies.

Dirthamen halts on the sidewalk, and resignation eats away some of his fear. Which is inconvenient on a number of levels. His thin shoulders are slumped, and in the light of the street lamps, they can see that most of his bruises are vivid and painful to behold. They’re almost surprised that there’s no swelling, but then, he’s probably a mage again in this life. Easing swelling is one of the most basic healing skills.

“I did not mean any harm,” he says. “But I could not leave my brother. It was my scholarship; it was my decision on what to do with it.”

Uthvir pauses, and considers the statement. Scholarship, hmm? Ah. The name switch starts to make sense. The Institute is probably the Evanuris Institute, then. The same one that plucked Tasallir up from his urchin days. Elgar’nan, for all his many faults, had done a fair job of running it, they recall. He’d left it to one of his grandchildren. Not one of the twins, but they don’t really remember which of the others had taken it over. But then the elections in Tevinter had gone distinctly southward and the government had cracked down on the family, new anti-elven regulations making life even in Arlathan considerably harsher. A lot of the Evanuris family assets had been seized, a lot of the charities disbanded. They  _think_  the institute had been taken under government oversight, though, in all honesty, they hadn’t paid it too much attention.

Selene had been upset, though. Not about all of it, of course, but. Some of it had been… particularly unpleasant.

Regardless, Uthvir isn’t surprised to find that the Institute has fallen under some questionable management. Probably not much better than the regular foster system, then, or even just a flimsy cover for it, with the organizers pocketing donation money and then running graduates off unless they obtain a prestigious enough scholarship or other accomplishment to make for good PR. Dirthamen could have won any number of scholarships, they suppose. Falon’Din… would not have fared so well, without a wealthy family backing him and indulging him.

So Dirthamen had won the free ride – for a relative value of ‘free’ – and, faced with the prospect of leaving his brother to survive on Arlathan’s streets, had… what? Changed places with him?

At which point Falon’Din had fucked off to whatever university, and left his brother to take up his identity. His identity which was probably, even at this tender age, connected to all sorts of terrible things.

Uthvir gives Dirthamen another careful once-over.

“Where did the bruises come from?” they ask.

Dirthamen swallows, and hesitates a moment. And then he lets out another breath.

“During our last year at the Institute, my brother hoped to improve his academic credit by using lyrium supplements before his spell testing. He neglected to fully pay for his supplements before leaving the city. A man who said he worked for the coterie… informed me, of that.”

“And hit you?” Uthvir confirms, just to be certain. “Fists?”

Dirthamen nods.

Hospital, then. Coterie members aren’t gentle, and while they don’t  _think_  he’s got internal bleeding – in no small part because he’s still alive – better not to risk it. Fear dithers a bit. But there’s not much danger in taking some stray to Emergency, and they can handle the coterie, most of the time. Hell, they could probably just pay off his debts. They gesture him forward, and he gets into their car with, again, a worrying lack of protests.

_Lucky **we**  found him, or he’d be dead before long._

“What’s your brother’s debt, Dirthamen?” they ask.

He slumps against the back seat.

“What will happen to him?” he asks.

_Quiet death, better than he deserves. Quick and clean; why should **he**  get a second chance?_

Uthvir shakes the thought away.

“Potentially, very little,” they offer. It’s a new life, they remind themselves. They can’t go hunting down their enemies from the old days – old days even by their standards – and killing them over and over again. That way lies madness.

Besides. It’s incautious, too.

“…Eight hundred,” Dirthamen tells them. Sounds about right, for some over-priced lyrium supplements. A solid chunk of change; but not one Uthvir couldn’t absorb. For someone on the bottom rungs, though, that would seem a monumental amount to climb one’s way through. Uthvir wonders what Dirthamen said to merit getting the rough treatment over it; or maybe the coterie brute never even knew he was hitting the wrong twin. If he’d just been given a name and a place, well…  _Falon’Din_  is certainly the kind of person who would merit rough treatment.

Assuming he’s the same.

…Uthvir’s just going to assume that, though, all things considered.

“Alright,” they say, and take the turn off to head towards the hospital.

Dirthamen’s brow furrows in confusion, but he doesn’t ask, even when it becomes blatantly obvious where they’re going. He endures a look-over from a doctor, who is informed that he got into a fight, ends up needing a hand splinted. The cast looks bulky and uncomfortable, but preferable to the alternative, and by the time Uthvir gets him back into the car it’s nearly morning.

They drive home.

Dirthamen is quiet. Pensive. Waiting. Fear picks up on some of his internal refrain, but not well enough to give Uthvir anything useful. Just snippets of internal refrains.  _We aren’t going to the police station. Is that a good thing, or a bad thing? Would they have me fixed up just to kill me? There would be records of them being with me at the hospital, wouldn’t there? Why create more of a trail? So they’re not going to kill me. Probably…_

They would fault him jumping to some of the worst possible conclusions, but under the circumstances – homeless, committing identity fraud, indebted to the coterie and in who-knows-what kind of trouble with a magister-run institute in a heavily anti-elf political climate – it actually seems far more reasonable than his compliance with Uthvir’s instructions.

The house ratchets up his alarm considerably.

Well.

It’s a nice house. That can imply certain things, depending on who you know.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Uthvir tells him, as they pull into the drive, and turn off the engine.

“Is someone else?” Dirthamen asks.

_Finally,_  they think. Or Fear does, perhaps. This appalling lack of self-preservation instincts was starting to sincerely unnerve them.

“No,” they say, opting for simplicity. “I’m not working for or with any of the people whom you might consider trouble.”

That gets a blink out of him. He looks up at the house, a moment. Uthvir waits, and with some obvious trepidation, Dirthamen emerges from the car again.

“Who are you working with, then?” he asks.

“Currently? A small Antivan conglomerate that’s been looking to expand their operations,” they tell him, ushering him inside. “But that’s not really relevant to you. To your inestimable good fortune, I am, in fact, a kindly and benevolent stranger who is interested only in your continued well-being.”

Dirthamen shifts, uncomfortably, and just seems even more confused. Also, not entirely convinced.

The inside of the manor is… sparse. Most non-essentials have been packed away into storage. The walls are crisp and bare, the old furniture has been largely replaced with serviceable pieces that add very little to the ambiance, but do what’s required of them. Dirthamen takes it all in, confusion and curiosity easing some of the ambivalence and terror away from him. Uthvir drags him into the kitchen, and opens the fridge, frowning thoughtfully at the sparse contents before pulling out a couple of eggs and some wrinkled-but-still-good bell peppers.

It’s been a while since anyone sat at that bar while they cooked for them. A memory drifts up, past the usual buffers; Virevas in her pyjamas, swinging her legs back and forth and stringing fake pearl necklaces onto one of her dolls, insisting that she get mushrooms in her omelette because ‘mushrooms are  _fancy_ , Nanae!’

They stall a moment, before pulling a fry pan down from the floating rack, and turning on the stove.

Dirthamen is silent through most of the cooking. But the way he stares at the food speaks volumes of hunger.

When Uthvir slides the finished plate in front of him, he looks startled.

“…Oh,” he says; as if he had just assumed that Uthvir planned on cooking and eating it all in front of him, like some kind of sadist.

Uthvir doesn’t spare him the discomfort of being observed somewhat while he eats, though. Dirthamen is hungry enough that he doesn’t seem capable of caring, once it’s clear that the food is his. He clears the plate, and Uthvir opens the fridge again, and fishes out a block of cheese and some cured meat; cuts it into rough cubes and squares, and tries, again, not to think about the last time making snacks in a hurry was a major part of their life.

Dirthamen eats that plate, too. Forcing himself to go slow as he can, it seems. Smart enough or experienced enough to know that if he throws it up, then it’s all for naught.

In the clear light of the kitchen, Uthvir can see much more of him. His clothes are worn and filthy, holes around the edges of his sleeves, frays in the cuffs of his pants. There are scrapes on his knuckles to go with the bruises still colouring his features, and those features are differently arranged than they should be. He’s less… striking, Uthvir thinks. Though it’s possible a shower would help with that, and maybe the general lack of Evanuris-ness is a contributing factor.

They’re going to have to tell Selene.

They’re not sure if they’d be doing her a favour by it. But if it was Thenvunin…

Their chest clenches, and they shut down that line of thought before it can get far. Dirthamen-but-not blinks at them, and no matter the difference in features those eyes, and that expression, are so quintessentially  _him_  that before Uthvir can overthink it, they lift up their phone and snap a picture of him.

Then they let out a long breath, as his fear ratchets up again.  _He’s trying to figure out what you would need a picture for,_  Fear helpfully informs him.  _He’s starting to wonder if you’re part of some kind of elven-trafficking ring._

They consider the house, with its obviously hastily-bought furnishings, and the situation.

Not an unfair assumption, in fact.

Though, of course, inaccurate.

“Thank you for the food,” is what Dirthamen says, though.

“You’re welcome,” Uthvir replies. “I’ll get more tomorrow. I wasn’t expecting any guests tonight.”

Lifting up the phone again, they finally just fire off a simple, explanatory text to Selene.

_Found one._

“May I ask who you are texting?” Dirthamen says.

“You may. It’s an old friend,” Uthvir tells him. “No one who would mean you any harm. On the contrary. While I could certainly pay away your debts, she’s not-inconsiderably wealthier than I am, and probably just as inclined to. I think it’s fair if I offer her first refusal, all things considered.”

Dirthamen fidgets.

“What are the factors you are considering?” he asks, as his fingers work away at the holes in his sleeves. Anxious and jittering, in a way that’s new to his mannerisms.

“Past favours, and potential future ones, of course. As well as the health of my emergency fund,” Uthvir replies. There’s no response from Selene, but then, considering the time, she’s probably asleep. They might have to call, and they might have to make it ring multiple times, to actually get her out of her dreams. They internally shrug, and pocket the phone. Look at Dirthamen again, for a moment.

What schools offer scholarships to Institute students?

Too many, probably.

Asking after his brother would, they think, be unlikely to yield answers. It’s not a pressing issue, anyway.

“Come on, then,” they say, at length, and push away from the counter.

“I can wash the dishes,” Dirthamen offers, fearful again.

“So can I,” Uthvir counters. “And I am not the one in dire need of a shower and a bed.” After a moment of consideration, they pull their phone out again, and text Selene the picture they took. They’re curious about their ability to recognize him. Is it something that would transfer through to a simple picture, they wonder? Will Selene see it and  _know?_

Worth finding out, they think. If it comes through in photographs, then searching for… others, will be easier.

They wonder if everyone is the same age.

Seems unlikely.

But then again, many things do.

For a few long minutes Dirthamen seems to weigh things, checking his odds, before he finally gets up and follows Uthvir. It’s still distressing, they decide. They could take advantage of the situation in any number of ways, and of course they  _won’t_ , but despite being – what? Eighteen? At least that – and somewhat familiar with the harsh realities of the world, Dirthamen is surprisingly compliant.

Or maybe that’s just it. Maybe he’s  _too_  familiar with the harsh realities of the world.

Uthvir leads him over to one of the guest rooms, which they’ve been using. There are other rooms. Furnished rooms; untouched rooms. But this one is serviceable, and they know, because it’s the one they’ve been living in.

“Bathroom’s through there,” they inform him, nodding towards the door. “Feel free to use anything in it. I’ll put fresh sheets on the bed, and I think I have spare set of clothes that will fit you for the night. Leave anything you want washed outside of the door. I was going to do a round of laundry anyway.”

Given the state of Dirthamen’s clothes, several rounds might actually be required. The machines are getting somewhat old, too. But they still work, or else Uthvir would have replaced them.

Dirthamen hesitates, again.

“…If I stay the night, what happens tomorrow?” he asks.

Uthvir is glad to hear an  _if_  from him. If he turned and walked out the door, they wouldn’t stop him; though they would probably follow him, because letting him die of exposure or get murdered by the coterie would make them a fairly shitty friend. But Dirthamen doesn’t know that, and might not believe them if they said as much. Or he might take them up on it, which would be troublesome.

Still, that he’s aware there’s some degree of choice on his part is a good sign for him, they think.

“Well, probably the only certainties are breakfast and some shopping,” Uthvir replies. “We can play it by ear.”

Dirthamen swallows.

“I can’t repay you,” he says. “Not… I don’t have any money.”

“I gathered. I’m not interested in repayment. I’m not interested in extorting or exploiting you, either,” they say for good measure, and move back towards the hall. “Towels are in the cupboard beside the sink. And just as a point of curiosity, what happened to your parents?”

Dirthamen blinks at them. Opens his mouth, and then closes it again.

“Dead,” he finally manages.

“Hmm,” Uthvir replies. Well. Selene will be better equipped to look into things, given her connections. They pull the bedroom door to rather than closing it, and wander back up the hall, and decide it’s time to actually try phoning now. The number rings several times before going to voice mail.

They wonder if they should tell Melarue.

Might be cruel, though. Just because they’ve found Dirthamen, and, joy of unending joys _, Falon’Din_ , doesn’t mean anyone else is out there. Depending on when their parents died, or how all of this is actually working, even the likes of Andruil and Sylaise might not be.

Uthvir gets back into the kitchen, and leans against one of the walls. Their heart is beating faster than they realized. They take a few fortifying breaths, and close their eyes.

_Don’t hope. It’s like climbing up and up, when you know you’re just going to fall again no matter what happens._

They breathe in through their nose and out through their mouth, chasing away the phantoms of memories that threaten to overwhelm them, until they can open their eyes and look at the kitchen around them without anything blurring their vision. Fear is restless, accusatory, but lacking a coherent target. And then it once it latches onto the recollection that they have left things in their room.

Nothing much. Just… some things, but, if Dirthamen should prove the type to rob them and flee in this life, he might take them. They turn, and head back down the hallway. The water in the bathroom is running. They head over to the small dresser in the room, and open the bottom drawer; reaching to the back to pull out a purple-and-gold duck print tie, and a hand-carved little wooden hawk. A beaded necklace, and hand-stitched coin purse, and an old children’s toy. Little things; things that might have gotten lost in storage. They fill their arms and carry them out of the room, and into the study they’re working from, and move them to the desk drawer there.

There’s a loose thread in the tie.

They pause, holding it for a moment. Tracing their fingers up to where the material has managed to fray a little. No easy fix for that; they suppose so many years of lifting and moving it, however carefully, have taken a toll. And that was after the many years of actual wearing it saw.

One day, it will be dust.

Uthvir swallows. Their hand trembles, just a little, and then they carefully put the tie down on top of the desk, and retrieve their sharpest pair of scissors from another drawer. They cut the loose thread off, and then tuck it carefully away with everything else. Shut it in.

Safe and sound, until the inevitable happens.

Maybe they shouldn’t have texted Selene. After all, one day, even if everything goes perfectly from here on out, this Dirthamen will die, too.

But again… if it was Thenvunin…

Their phone rings.

Selene’s number.

They suck in another breath, clear their throat to make certain they can speak clearly, and answer it.

“Selene?”

Silence. Or, well, not quite silence. They can hear her breathing.

“We’re getting a little old for prank calls,” they drawl, folding their arms and leaning against the desk.

More silence, before they finally get a response.

“What did you  _do?”_  she finally snaps. Angry-sounding, but then, she might not actually be angry. Or, not  _just_  angry. But it would seem that the picture – and accompanying text – have provoked a rather dramatic response. Enough so that she hadn’t simply rolled over and gone back to sleep; enough so that she seems to be struggling to find words.

Maybe photos  _do_  work, then.

“What do you mean, what did I do?” they reply.

“He – the, the photo – he’s  _hurt,”_  Selene settles on, though she seems to struggling through a multitude of possible responses.

Right.

The bruises. And the cast, though they don’t recall if that made it into the picture; they’d been focused on his face.

“He was like that when I found him,” they say. “He was sleeping on a park bench. Ran into some trouble with the coterie, thanks to his brother. Or at least, that seems to be the situation.”

More breathing.

“Where is he?” she asks, at last.

“In my bathroom, currently,” Uthvir informs her. “I took him to the hospital. Fed him, watered him, and provided he stays, he can sleep here and get more of the same treatment tomorrow. Or for however long he requires it.”

They leave the situation open, then. Dirthamen was enough of a friend, once, that they’ll be obliged to look after him no matter what Selene decides to do – and Selene knows that. If she wants to keep her distance, they won’t fault her. But they doubt she will. Desire is often a short-sighted thing, but even more, there’s her contract to consider.

“Is it… is it really…?” Selene asks, her voice wavering.

Uthvir gives her a moment. They know what she’s asking, and when she doesn’t finish, they answer anyway. A slight echo falling into their voice; a deeper note, that lets her know just  _who_  is talking.

“Yes,” they say.

Because it is. Fear is sure of it.

There’s a clattering sound on the other end of the line, and then the call cuts. Uthvir hangs up, and checks the time. Assuming she gets the quickest flight available, and the quickest flight happens to be ten minutes from now, it will still take her a few hours to get here, at the least. They check the hall again, but the bathroom water is still running. So they head over to their desk, and try to focus on some of the work they’d meant to get done.

About ten minutes into that, there’s a demanding clatter at the window.

Right.

The demon bird.

“Fuck off,” Uthvir instructs, as talons scrape against the outside wall, and Screecher sticks their head through the window and shrieks demandingly at them.

The bird doesn’t relent, though, and so after a few minutes, Uthvir goes and opens the window wider. Screecher gives them a look that implies that they’re far too slow and should have done this from the  _very beginning,_  and nips them, before flapping over to the desk and rifling through their pens.

“Yes, fine,” they say. “Help yourself. Obviously since I brought home a reincarnation and not a pile of twigs, I have this coming.”

Screecher shrieks at them, and singles out the shiniest silver pen in the bunch, and then pauses. Head cocked, turned towards the hallway.

Uthvir hears the sound of the bathroom door opening.

They consider their options. Approach, or maintain a distance and let Dirthamen decide what to do? But as they’re debating, Screecher lets out a curious  _wark,_  and hops off of the desk. It makes its way over to the hall door with its ungainly terrestrial gait, bobbing a little and then peering down the hall.

“Come back here,” Uthvir instructs. “It’s not… it’s someone else.” Someone Screecher would regularly try to  _divebomb_  out of the garden, should Dirthamen do the inadvisable and actually walk into it. But then, that was Screecher’s response to most people.

Uthvir pauses when they get to the door, however, and find Screecher determinedly hopping over to their room, with a very intent look on its face. The bird is, they know, and abomination. And – for all that it is a  _bird_  – it is much older than Uthvir. Thenvunin once described their first meeting, and at the time they had just assumed the creature had picked up on his unwavering delight in all winged things, and known a good deal when they saw it.

But…

It  _is_  an abomination.

An old one.

And if Uthvir can recognize Dirthamen, then perhaps Thenvunin’s ‘first meeting’ with Screecher… wasn’t.

They’re still contemplating the matter when the bird reaches the bedroom door, and unabashedly knocks it open – hard enough to bang it against the wall. They wince, and stride over. Screecher is standing just past the threshold, staring at Dirthamen, who is freshly dressed in a set of Uthvir’s spare pyjamas – somewhat small on him – and looking at the bird in a mixture of puzzlement and, of course, fear.

Before Uthvir can do much of anything, the bird shrieks – because  _of course,_  what situation is not improved by screaming at it – but, rather than accost Dirthamen, it immediately scrambles back into the hall and takes off; shooting down it with concerning speed, before, by the sounds of things, flapping its way out of the nearest window again.

There is an awkward pause.

“…Was that… your bird?” Dirthamen finally asks, and now he’s starting to look like he thinks this might all be some bizarre dream.

“Legally, yes,” Uthvir replies, and glances back down the hall again.

…Hmm.

Well.

The demon bird shrieking at people and randomly tearing off is hardly a new development. And at least it has settled the question of whether Uthvir should approach or keep a distance, for the moment. They look back at Dirthamen. Cleaned up the bruises actually look even more livid, but with his hair darker and damper – and therefore straighter – the resemblance is even more striking. Though, of course, it’s been some time since they actually saw Dirthamen.

There are photos, of course. But it’s been some time since they let themselves look at photos from those days, too.

“…Did… was there a purpose to the bird…?” Dirthamen tries, looking for all the world as if he’s terrified that there might be a pop quiz on a subject he never studied for.

“No,” Uthvir assures him. “Though its unpleasant countenance does help me keep to my preferred ‘mysterious loner in an empty mansion’ lifestyle. It adds a certain necessary ambiance.”

Dirthamen blinks. The worried expression doesn’t abate.

“…It was my husband’s,” they feel compelled to add, for reasons wholly unknown; and have to stop themselves from making any kind of damning gesture after the fact.

“Oh,” Dirthamen replies.

Uthvir doesn’t know what they expected.  _Oh, your **husband.**  You must mean Thenvunin! I was with him in the reincarnation waiting room. Did you want his exact address? And possibly a way to restore his memories of you and the entire life you lived together, before he died? Because obviously I can give you those things._

They grit their teeth, and turn away.

“Don’t worry about it. Sorry if the bird distressed you,” they offer, and manage not to sound quite so tense as they are. Good. “I’ll be down the hall if you need anything.”

“…Thank you,” Dirthamen offers.

They wave it off, and pull the door to again before making their way into the hall.

Sleep, they think, will not be coming in any great hurry. Though they haven’t really done much at all, they nevertheless feel like they’ve just flown through an ice storm; something jagged and exhilarating, and exhausting all at once. They stretch out their muscles a little, and head back to the study. The desk is a mess. A handful of pens are gone, and there are scratch marks on the windowsill. They frown at those, and then lean out; scanning the garden.

There’s a lot of rustling. Apparently Screecher has decided that sleep is for the weak as well.

Uthvir watches and listens for a few moments longer, but when nothing too out of the ordinary happens, they go back to attempting to focus on their work.

Dirthamen doesn’t approach them at all during the night, but he does stay. They check the room again a few times, unobtrusively when they wash and return his clothes, and find him sleeping. Fear confirms him to be genuinely unconscious, and having bad dreams, but doesn’t otherwise pick up on much. Uthvir considers the potential benefits of actually going to sleep and spying on said dreams; but that seems… too intrusive, possibly. At least, not without a better reason to attempt it than ‘idle curiosity’. So they set the option aside.

Selene arrives shortly after dawn, while Dirthamen is still sleeping.

She doesn’t bother to knock, but she does dither in the front foyer. Uthvir finds her staring intently at the whorls in the floor. Fear gets a better read on her than usual, and Des is riding high enough for them to see horns on her head and flickers in her eyes. Her hands are gripping her biceps hard enough to straight the fabric of the jacket she’s wearing.

They regard her in silence for a long moment.

“I promised him breakfast,” they say, at last. “But I don’t have much to cook with. Care to come along?”

Her eyes narrow at the floor whorls. They can, just barely, feel the rippling murmur of conflict about her.  _What_  she’s debating, they don’t know. It could be whether or not to abandon this whole idea; it could be whether or not breakfast in specific is a good one; it could be whether or not she really believes them, or something else, perhaps.

They wait it out.

It takes a while.

“He looked… young,” she finally says.

Uthvir nods in understanding.

“He is,” they confirm. “I don’t have an exact number. He just graduated recently, by the sounds of it.”

Selene shifts, and finally looks at them.

“Alright. Give me the whole story, then,” she asks. “What happened?”

With a shrug, Uthvir launches into a narrative of the night’s events. Going to the park in the dead of night to get an armload of branches for the insane bird that owns their house – as one does. Finding an unconscious, semi-disguised vagrant on a park bench. Realizing said vagrant was actually Dirthamen. Getting Dirthamen into their car with appalling ease. What they managed to infer, and what Dirthamen himself actually told them. The hospital report, and, in summation, the quiet evening which followed.

They leave out Screecher being a poor host, but they’re not quite ready to relinquish that idea and its implications, yet. It’s still stewing in their own mind.

Besides, the bird’s not important to Selene.

When they finish, she doesn’t look much better than she did when they started.

“Could he be a descendant?” she asks. “Maybe it’s just… a resemblance.”

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

“A resemblance, with the same name, and a brother with the matching one? And who would even pass a resemblance on? Your children were adopted. Sylaise and June’s children were adopted, and so was Eloren. Adaia… did Adaia procreate? But I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it, because you’ve kept track of them all anyway.”

“I could have overlooked something,” she insists. “Illegitimate children happen, Uthvir!”

“So do reincarnations,” they counter, bluntly.

Selene frowns.

“We never confirmed that for certain,” she says.

“Now we have.”

“Uthvir, the –“

They hold up a hand, cutting her off as they hear movement from the end of the hall. She goes still, and a few moments later, there is the soft shuffle of hesitant footsteps. They keep their gaze mostly on Selene, as Dirthamen makes his way to the front of the house. It is actually almost a marvel, to watch her expression change. To see her take him in, and swiftly cycle through a process of ‘no’, and then ‘but it  _is’_ , with less hesitance than they would, perhaps, indulge in. The arguments die. Des flits up to the surface, and there is that strange pulse between them. Over the years, Uthvir thinks, they’ve both wrought something new out of Selene’s desires and the spirit’s own peculiarities. Something that would probably not be defined in terms as simple as ‘desire’. Devotion, perhaps?

Not that Uthvir is one to talk. Fear is fear, but… it has been a long time, and even when they first met, the spirit was never quite so simple as that.

Too much empathy for most fear-driven things.

When they finally glance back at Dirthamen, they find him looking, also, at Selene.

His gaze darts uncertainly towards them.

“…Hello…” he manages.

Uthvir has to laugh, at that.

‘Hello’ indeed. But what else could anyone say? And he doesn’t even know the true depths of how very complicated things are. Selene is staring at him like she’s trying to keep Des from just scooping him where he stands. Probably not even to do anything untoward, as yet; no, the young Dirthamen is bruised and battered and, perhaps it is their own impulses talking, but they would lay good odds on her just wanting to get him somewhere  _safe._

“Dirthamen, this is Selene. Selene, Dirthamen,” they say, gesturing between the two of them, before turning their full attention onto their guest. “I hope you don’t object to going out for breakfast? My treat. Just give me a moment to get my wallet.”

They leave the young man standing uncertainly in the front foyer, with a stranger who is looking very intently at him.

A quick check of the garden reveals that Screecher has flown off. That’s not unusual either, though, and it’s better than having the thing sulking and pining and making that Thenvunin-specific call that it’s somehow never forgotten or given up on. Uthvir eyes the massive tangle of a ‘nest’ they’ve been letting the creature build. Probably Thenvunin would be appalled to see the garden in such a state; but they ran out of the wherewithal to keep clearing it for a few months, and then the damn bird just seemed so determinedly self-satisfied and, well. Cleaning up can always happen later.

So can rebuilding, for that matter.

When they get back to the front of the house, Selene and Dirthamen Version 2.0 are still having their stare-off. Dirthamen looks confused more than anything. He’s trying to figure out what the hell is going on, but by the minute, it seems, he’s becoming more confident in the notion that no one is about to break his kneecaps or drag him off to a police station.

“Do I know you?” he asks Selene.

Well.

_Perfect._

Selene looks like she’s on the verge of some kind of epic meltdown. Not on the surface; the surface just looks worryingly intent and slightly displeased. But Uthvir can see it on her well enough. Out of the three of them, she’s the least subdued – depending on where you’re looking. And Des is loud enough that  _they_  can hear him clear as a bell.

_“Say yes! He’s ours! He knows us because he’s ours!”_

Uthvir pauses at the threshold, assessing.

_Des is foolish._

Such helpful partners, these spirits.

“Selene has one of those faces,” Uthvir supplies, making up their mind and striding forward again. “Now. I believe I promised you more food, yes? And we should get you some clothes that aren’t just the ones you’re wearing. Filthy chic went out about a decade ago, so it’ll be difficult to even pass you off as artfully dishevelled.”

Dirthamen blinks.

“This is a very strange situation,” he finally decides. “I would like to know why you are helping me, please. You claim no affiliations with either the Institute or the coterie, but you knew my name. It’s clear you were looking for me. Why?”

_Finally._

“I wasn’t looking for you,” Uthvir corrects him. “You are… incidental. Something I noticed in addition to another task I was performing, for a very exclusive and demanding client. But seeing as how you are in trouble, and I occasionally indulge in the pastime of helping people in trouble, here we are.”

Dirthamen looks like he’s not quite convinced; but also like he’s not sure how to refute them without being offensive.

Uthvir isn’t going to give him an easy out.

“Is she your client?” Dirthamen asks, nodding towards Selene. “Is this something to do with the magisterium? I heard there were investigations into corruption… but I don’t know anything about that.”

“Selene isn’t a client. She’s a friend,” they reassert. “But here’s the thing. You don’t have to know all of what’s going on, not right now. For the time being, we can simply have breakfast and go buy some clothes. And if, at any point, you want to leave, you can turn around and do so, and no one will stop you.”

Des doesn’t like that; but Selene finally gets a handle on him, and Uthvir stops worrying that her spontaneous pyromancy is going to make a rare reappearance.

Dirthamen glances towards her, and then back at them.

“Alright,” he agrees.

“Good,” Uthvir decides.

Now.

To one hell of an odd breakfast, they suppose.

~

Breakfast doesn’t quite go smoothly, but it’s not a disaster, either. Mostly because Selene clams up hard and fast, and Dirthamen seems at once intrigued and baffled by the send left turn his life has taken, and Uthvir doesn’t really make as much of an effort to spare anyone as they possibly could.

“So. Your brother. Asshole?” they ask, over rich rice and fried eggs.

Dirthamen pauses.

Selene keeps staring at him when he does that. Like it’s mesmerizing. Uthvir doesn’t really see the appeal, but then, Dirthamen’s not the love of  _their_  life.

“What do you mean?” Dirthamen finally asks. He’s got his ‘oh god is this is a test’ look on again.

Just what the hell do they get up to at that institute?

“Is your brother an asshole. A shitheel. A giant, fiery trainwreck of a person who tends to leave misery and ruination in his wake,” Uthvir elaborates.

Selene glances at them.

Dirthamen, however, suddenly seems to develop an interest in staring fixedly at his eggs.

“No,” he says.

_Lying._

Uthvir waits, but nothing more seems to be forthcoming. Not an amendment, but not a defense or assertion of Falon’Din’s virtues. Just Dirthamen eating rice and eggs and squid, almost radiating an intense desire to not be asked anymore questions, while Selene glares at Uthvir in a manner that implies that they just cocked something up.

They don’t see why. Dirthamen is  _afraid_  of things to do with his brother, which, obviously they’re not thrilled to have him be frightened, but when he is then they can glean things. Or Fear can. A few more moments of silence, and they pick up enough to gather that Dirthamen is… genuinely worried that some harm will befall his brother, but  _also_  afraid of what his brother might do if he finds out about it.

Sibling conflicts. They let the matter drop, as they try not to think too deeply on that topic.

The air around their table is filled with the taps of utensils, the quiet ambiance of eating.

“Are you still hungry?” Selene asks, when Dirthamen’s managed to clear his bowl.

“This was sufficient,” he replies, quietly.

“I think we should have dessert. They make a delicious sago pudding here,” Uthvir offers, and flags down a server. No objects to them placing another order, and Dirthamen eats his pudding with the look of a man who’s had too few of them.

Uthvir’s not  _too_  worried when he gets up to use the bathroom. There’s a chance he’ll try and climb out of the window or something, of course, but they can cross that bridge should they come to it. At the very least, now that they know there’s a problem they can start looking into things.

Selene looks like she doesn’t know if she wants to follow him or not, though. Like she’s afraid he’ll vanish into a puff of emotionally confusing smoke, leaving just as suddenly as he’s appeared.

“You know,” Uthvir offers, leaning back in their seat. “You don’t actually need to do anything. I can handle it, if that’s easier.”

Selene gives them an incredulous look.

“Easier?” she asks. “ _Nothing_  about this is easy. He’s…” She gestures, and really it’s a gesture that could mean anything. But Uthvir gets it.

“All I’m saying is that you can step back,” they reply. “Decide how you want to approach this. I can take care of his troubles. Keep him fed and watered, help him figure out what he’s going to do with himself. I’ve looked after people. I know how it’s done.”

Selene frowns, and lets out a low hiss of frustration.

“It’s not that simple,” she says.

They suppose, even given how complicated it all is, that this is true enough for her.

“He’s safe with me,” they reiterate, firmly.

The conversation halts, then, as Dirthamen actually comes out of the bathroom. Uthvir marvels. They aren’t sure, at this point, if he has the worst instincts they’ve ever seen, or the best. Because it’s true enough that they don’t mean him any harm, but really, if it were  _Uthvir_ , they’d be far and away from this suspicious situation by now.

“Clothes shopping, then,” they declare.

Selene is quiet, again, as they leave, and make their way to one of the nearby department stores. There’s a brief pause when Selene insists upon checking Dirthamen’s cast. Her hands are impressively steady when she touches him, going through familiar motions, they suppose, even if they can  _feel_  her straining on the inside.

Dirthamen offers her a tentative smile. The first they’ve seen from him.

“Are you a healer?” he asks.

“No,” Selene says. “But I… know some healing.”

“Ah,” Dirthamen says.

Riveting stuff.

But it  _is_  interesting, and not just in and of itself, they think. The more they see Dirthamen with Selene, the more… Dirthamen-ish they perceive him as. They’re not sure if it’s simply that witnessing their interactions reminds them even more of ancient history, and therefore inclines them to notice the similarities better, or if there’s something in Dirthamen that’s answering Selene’s proximity with… what? A recollection? An echo? Recognition?

Maybe it’s simply that there’s some spiritual pattern written between them, and once they’re together, it’s easy to fall into the tracks again.

_Optimistic,_  Fear cautions.

Uthvir really doesn’t know why they bother at this point, though. They’re damned in almost any circumstance. So really, there’s no getting around it; no degree of distance that can actually offer them more safety than closeness, come to it.

Life is pain, as the Dread Pirate would say.

And it goes on. Which is the point of all of this. They fold their thoughts away, and toss a packet of briefs into the cart. They buy Dirthamen jeans and hoodies and socks, and a new pair of shoes while they’re at it, and try not to remember growth spurts and wardrobe replacements, back-to-school and university, Thenvunin picking through shelves and tutting and wondering if this will be warm enough, or if they have that in a different colour, or size.

Dirthamen still likes black and grey and blue.

Uthvir isn’t the only one having troubles, they know. Selene is pale by the time they leave. Almost like a ghost, drifting behind them. They think she might want to go; they think she might be incapable of it. What if he disappears as soon as she looks away? What if it turns out she’s still sleeping, still dreaming?

Ah.

But her dreams are always less conflicted than this, and Des has no reason to make them more sadistic.

Not these days, at least.

Uthvir glances at her, but there’s not good way to reason it out, especially not with Dirthamen right there. So in the end just fit all their purchases into the car, and then go and buy lunch. And then they head back to the house, and Dirthamen goes to take a nap, after Selene fusses over his cast and nearly follows him to his room. Before she remembers.

As soon as he’s gone, she folds like a house of cards.

Uthvir lets her, for a while. And then they sigh, and prod her up. Get her to sit in the kitchen while they make coffee.

“I’m so much older than him, now,” Selene says, faintly, while they’re pouring the cream into her mug.

“We’re older than most everyone, now,” Uthvir points out, and slides the coffee over to her, before drinking a mouthful of theirs straight. Scalding. “Unless they happen to be like us.”

Selene’s hands curl around her coffee. They wonder if she can even feel the warmth, given high her temperature tends to run when she’s worked up over something.

“I should go incinerate the coterie,” she says, still in that distant, too-overwhelmed way.

“The coterie’s roots are too deep. But he’s not Dirthamen Evanuris anymore, Selene. Paying his brother’s debts should be enough to satisfy them,” Uthvir counters.

Selene lets out a low breath.

“His brother,” she says. “I’m going to have to… what should I do about his brother?”

Uthvir shrugs.

“You can leave that to me,” they suggest. “Falon’Din knew what he was doing when he left Dirthamen here with his identity and his debts. He probably assumes his brother is dead by now. I doubt he’ll come looking for him, and again, he’s not Dirthamen Evanuris anymore. There’s no high-stakes corporate empire for him to inherit, no real reason for him to show up in the news. The scholarship’s tainted now anyway, unless we can frame Falon’Din as an imposter without his brother’s consent, and I doubt Dirthamen will throw him under the bus.”

Selene scowls, and the coffee starts to boil.

“He said his brother was… difficult. I should have known he’d be like Andruil.”

“You’re boiling,” Uthvir mentions. “Don’t crack the mug, I only have three.”

Selene’s scowl intensifies; but after a few moments, the coffee simmers down. She lets out a long breath.

“You should buy more mugs,” she says. “More things in general. Even Melarue has  _things._ You, though. You’re turning into a cliché straight out of a tacky old romance novel. Sealed off rooms and belligerent security systems, and sparse, unfurnished corridors. It’s like you’re squatting in your own home.”

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

“Catty,” they accuse. “And considering your apartment is basically a bed and a fridge…”

“I have  _things,”_  Selene counters. “I have photographs on the walls, even. You, you’re living in all these rooms with nothing in them. I’ve just downsized. What does a single person need eight bedrooms for?” she reasons.

They curl their lip.

“Oh, yes, it’s such a better coping mechanism, lining your apartment with suspicious, decades-old photographs of people you shouldn’t have any attachment to,” they counter. “I’m sure no one ever gets the least little bit suspicious of you.”

She glares at them.

“Don’t pretend you’ve stripped everything away just to be  _covert,”_  she insists.

“I know this might be difficult for you to comprehend, but unlike some people, I don’t have any desire to be caught and executed,” Uthvir replies. The room gets a little darker, then. Selene’s glare intensifies, and a few illusory flames lick off into the air behind her.

“I don’t have a  _death wish,_  Fear.”

“I suppose not. I suppose if it was actually something you wanted, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from taking it, no matter how idiotic it might be.”

“As if I have  _ever_  been that unrestrained,” Selene replies, expression stormy. “Maybe you’re just projecting, hmm? Seems to me like Fear’s been doing most of your talking for decades now. You’re quick to criticize, but let’s face it – you’re coming apart at the seams.”

Uthvir folds their arms, and Selene glares, and the two of them stare one another down for a long, uncomfortable moment.

Fear and Des have… questionable regard for one another.

But Selene and Uthvir are friends.

“…I am,” they finally concede.

The fires crackling along the periphery of Selene’s being snuff out. Her glare falters; then falls.

Uthvir turns and looks down towards the hall, where their room is. Where Dirthamen’s sleeping. They draw in a long breath, and let it out again.

“I’m stuck,” they admit, finally. “I don’t want to move on, but I can’t keep looking back. I watch my great-great grandchildren, but they don’t know me. They don’t know you. And yet… if I could go back and do it all over again, I would. Even if Thenvunin didn’t know me. I’d still ask for his number, still start all over again and  _make_  him know me once more. And then I could love him, and be with him, and oh of course, watch him wither and age and die  _all over again._   **Yes** , I am coming apart at the seams. Even Fear can’t find a simple answer to any of this.”

Selene is quiet for a long while. Long enough that Uthvir regrets saying anything; cursing internally, folding their arms and packing it all away again. There’s no simple answer because it doesn’t exist, of course. Pain is inevitable, though. Mercy… mercy comes in the spaces between one pain and the next.

They miss their family so much.

“He might not even  _like_  me this time,” Selene finally says.

Uthvir glances at her, and is grateful not to have their outburst acknowledged.

“He might not,” they allow. “He definitely won’t if you don’t even give him your number.”

“Ah, yes. The stirring, epic romance that began with ‘hey, want to trade numbers so we can have sex some time?’” Selene says, with a snort. But her tone is much more relaxed, moment by moment. Still very Des-ish, but in that meshed-together, hodgepodge way of theirs that’s become more and more frequent over the years.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, are we judging one another’s college days?” they counter. “Because-“

“Don’t.”

“-I  _seem_  to recall-“

“Uthvir. No.”

“-the most awkward and persistent ‘stop-and-start’ I have  _ever_ witnessed happening back then-“

“I take it back. Exchanging numbers is fine,” Selene says, holding up a hand, and Uthvir reads some genuine fear in her desperation not to review. They relent. Dredging up old memories is always a questionable pastime; even for someone who dreams them. Dreams don’t require a great deal of coherent or alert functionality – unlike the waking world.

They let out a long breath, and feel very old and weary. And, worse, tremulously hopeful.

“What do you want to do?” they ask, at last. Offering more time seems to have fallen flat.

Selene finally takes a sip of her coffee, and then grimaces at the taste. Uthvir’s not taking the fall for that one, she’s the one who decided to boil it in her mug after they added the cream.

“…There’s a townhouse. It survived the whole government fiasco, largely because Dirthamen kept it off the records,” she finally says. “It’s quiet. I don’t usually stay there, but I’ve kept it liveable. Someone might have seen you with him at the hospital, or the park, but I doubt the coterie will go looking for him there. I’ll take him, and then handle the mess.”

Uthvir inclines their head.

“I can do the cleaning up, if you prefer to focus on other things,” they offer again. But she shakes her head.

“I need to know it’s done with. That he’s safe,” she insists. “Not that I wouldn’t trust you, but… I suppose some of the paranoia has rubbed off over the years.”

That’s as close to an apology as they generally come these days. Uthvir accepts it, and knocks back the rest of their own coffee, and wonders what the new Dirthamen will make of all of this. In a way, they suppose it’s lucky it’s Dirthamen, who is generally so inclined to roll with life’s punches. Although that does seem to get him run over a lot, too.

“Take my car,” they say.

Selene frowns.

“I have a car.”

“That’s not a car, that’s a delusional golf cart,” they counter. Selene opens her mouth to protest. “It gets drafty,” they add.

She closes it.

“…Fine,” she relents. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” they return, and suppose that’s that. Though Selene doesn’t leave in any great hurry, either. Instead she drifts around their house awhile, poking her way into some of the restricted rooms, but always gravitating back towards the one which her reincarnated beau is sleeping in. Uthvir lets her do as she pleases. She won’t hurt anything, and it’s nothing she hasn’t seen before; and sometimes there is, of course, comfort in that. In having  _someone_  who… remembers.

There’s a video file on their computer. Encrypted, ancient, restored several times over. Backed up in, oh. It must be more than a hundred places by now. It’s full of… things. Uthvir hasn’t watched it in decades upon decades, but when Selene finally takes Dirthamen and goes, they open it up. Alone in their study, in the dark, they watch videos of familiar faces, and listen to familiar voices, and feel a moment of visceral gratitude that they were born in the digital age.

They watch their daughters feeding halla at the zoo. Uthvir behind the camera, as they often were. Thenvunin fretting, worrying that the animals might hop over the fence, but nevertheless lifting Virevas up so she can see better. Eda doing her best to climb up the fence, while Kel talks to the halla, informing them all of just how lovely they are.

There’s a clatter outside.

Uthvir startles. They close the file, reflexively, and silence fills the study. Their face is wet, and it’s evening, they realize. The sky outside is purple, darkening at the edges. The sounds came from the garden. Screecher, they think. They go and double-check it anyway, and sure enough, the bird is working at the nest again. All determined intent as it hauls up what looks like half a tree’s worth of branches, and starts shoring up what seems to be the main section of its monumental construct.

“Back at the grind, hmm?” Uthvir asks.

Screecher shrieks, and flies over to them. Pulling at their pockets a bit, until they realize that Uthvir doesn’t have anything for them. Then they make an unhappy noise, clearly chiding their laziness, and fly back to their construction work.

Uthvir watches their fellow abomination, for a while.

Then they head back inside.

~

Witnessing Dirthamen’s reincarnation and subsequent interactions with Selene from the outside is… an interesting experience, they’ll give it that. For the first few days they don’t hear much, apart from the occasional phone call from Selene needing to press some contact or other, and incidentally assuring them that Dirthamen is still alive and well and rather overwhelming confused. The Thursday after The Discovery, as they’ve taken to mentally deeming it, their phone rings at just past one in the morning.

“Falon’Din is a piece of shit,” Selene informs them, furiously.

“I’m shocked,” they reply, fighting back a sudden flashback to Glory and Desire. There was a time, they recall, when ‘Falon’Din Is a Piece of Shit’ was an almost daily conversation starter.

They lean back in their chair, and wonder if this is going anywhere, or if they were just the only person Selene felt she could call and expand upon this with.

For a while there’s just more heavy breathing on the other end of the line.

“So, did you verify this in person?” they finally ask.

A pause. Then a sigh.

“No,” she says. “Dirthamen phoned him. He wanted to make sure his brother was alright. I only heard half the conversation, but it was enough.”

“Ah.”

“You met him before he died the first time around, right?” Selene asks. “I mean. Glory dated him and it went… poorly? Is that right?”

“You could say that,” Uthvir allows. “If you’re looking for a refutation or defense of his character, you won’t get it from me.” They consider. It’s been a long time. Glory’s gone, and therefore free from the potential consequences of having anyone find out that they committed a murder more than a century ago.

“He stalked Glory for a while. Harassed them, and Squish, too. Did a bunch of messed up shit. Eventually he killed Glory’s cat, and, well, you know what they say about people who go after animals. Escalation and all. His dying… might not have been a complete accident.”

Selene’s quiet for a moment.

“Damn,” she says.

“I do still have some friends in Antiva,” they remind her, checking their nails. They’ve been getting long on them, of late. Especially when they’re not paying attention.

“…I’ll get back to you on that,” she decides, which is a little bit of a surprise. But then, Andruil is almost entirely the reason for her current situation. Wariness of any of Dirthamen’s other siblings seems… sensible, in that light. Even extreme wariness.

They won’t be faulting her, at least.

“Alright. Is he doing alright?” they ask, for good measure.

“He’s got a job now,” she says. She sounds concerned. “I’ve been talking to him about school, but he shies away from it. Near as I can tell the Evanuris Institute is the Elven Youth Institute, now. Eloren inherited it from Elgar’nan, and did a good job with it, as near as I can tell. When she died it went into oversight by the family’s main company. I thought it was shut down after the government’s ‘investigations’, but apparently it wasn’t. Now it’s a charitable write-off for some magister living in Minrathous, but it’s got all the hallmarks of embezzlement and abuse.”

“Wish I could say I was surprised,” Uthvir offers.

“I should have paid more attention to it,” Selene says.

“How many charities did the Evanuris family have?” they wonder. A lot, as they recall. It was part of the family image, a good way to alleviate criticism and keep public opinion from falling away too far. Even when people knew about the criminality, a good charity reputation could often make them seem like the lesser evil. Yes, they kill people; but they also rescue little orphans, and you don’t want to deprive the orphans of rescue, now do you?

“Hundreds,” Selene allows. “But this was a big one.”

“It was also Elgar’nan’s pet project. Look, you didn’t know what happened to it then, but you know what’s happening to it  _now,”_  they remind her.

“Not for much longer,” Selene says. “I’m shutting it down even if I have to go sneak those kids out of their beds and burn it to the ground myself.”

“I’d pay to see that,” they claim. Though, given the likelihood that they’d end up with a horde of orphans and subsequent emotional investments, probably not, as a matter of fact. Probably it would be wiser to just run screaming in the opposite direction.

“You can give me money if you want, but if you think I wouldn’t strong-arm you into helping me smuggle babies out through the windows, you are very mistaken,” Selene assures them.

“This isn’t  _actually_  your plan, is it?” they check.

“We’ll see,” Selene replies, ominously, right  before swearing and hanging up on them.

She’s been doing that a lot lately.

They suppose they don’t really have to wonder why. She’s probably all but set up camp around that townhouse. Hopefully she’s actually  _in it,_  and not lurking in the bushes like some kind of weird-but-ultimately-harmless stalker.

Ultimately harmless where Dirthamen is concerned, at least.

They leave the whole matter be, and actually decide to try and get some sleep that night. A glance in the mirror reveals that they’re looking somewhat… spookier, than they generally care to. They ease into it with a bath, and eventually drift off into nebulous nightmares and disjointed recollections. A patchwork Fear has put together, something not-quite-restful, but manageable. It disinclines other spirits to crowd them, and it keeps them unconscious for long enough that their body gets a break.

When they wake up in the morning, Screecher has cleaned out the feeder, and taken off again.

The bird doesn’t come home that night.

Nor the next.

When it hasn’t returned by the weekend, Uthvir feels a sinking dread settle in the pool of their stomach. The damn bird always comes back. Its nest is here, its things are here. Even that time some asshole shot a dart into it, it managed to fly back, shrieking complaints and acting like it had been run through with a broadsword until Uthvir got the dart out. More angry than afraid, but then, that can be a massive liability under certain circumstances.

They go out to look for it.

It’s not always difficult to figure out where Screecher has been. The nest is riddled with clues; certain types of plant material, certain kinds of found things that are more liable to come from one place than another. Uthvir visits parks and neighbouring gardens, covertly climbing over hedges, internally swearing as the weekend passes and they don’t find anything except a few shed feathers.

By Tuesday their mood is shot to hell.

_Probably dead,_  Fear helpfully reminds them. Probably dead, probably gunned down by some angry neighbour who was sick of having their garden poached for branches, buried in a yard somewhere outside of Uthvir’s search radius.

They keep looking, though.

Selene calls to ask them if they’d be willing to fly to Rivain, which is apparently where Falon’Din is.

“Can’t,” they say. “I have another pressing obligation that’s cropped up recently. Isn’t Melarue there already?”

“Yes, but it’s… an anniversary,” Selene hedges.

“So? Melarue lives to be distracted. You probably don’t even have to provide context, just give them something to do,” Uthvir suggests, around when they hear an odd noise coming through the open doors to the back garden.

They still.

“I have to go,” they say, and hang up. Screecher. The sound is wrong, but maybe it’s injured? They make their way out back, scanning the garden wall, and then freeze again as they hear a voice from the other side.

“Yes, I know, but I can’t get over that,” the voice says.

Screecher peeps its friendliest, happiest peep.

Uthvir remains frozen. Of course, of course. The abomination bird. Older than dirt, who’s probably seen more lifetimes than they can count. They wonder if there’s usually some correlation between generations of reincarnation. A pattern to notice? That was why Screecher went tearing out of the room when it saw Dirthamen. It recognized someone from the right ‘round’, and realized… started… looking?  _Knew_  where to look? Or did it just get lucky?

Has it been looking in the  _Fade?_

These are all much easier thoughts to try and parse than the sound of that voice.

“Is this where you live?” they hear it ask, from the other side of the wall. “No, no, stop pulling. You can’t lift me over that.”

Uthvir should go around, they think. They should go out the gate, and go around, but they can’t move. It seems perilously likely that the voice will vanish the instant they do. They’ll round the corner and it will turn out to only be that; a voice. A whisper. A cruel joke of the wind.

They climb the wall.

It’s fairly high. Warded, too. But not against them, and the surface is rough. They cling onto it, going up and up until they reach the top, taking the most direct route towards the voice. Crushing a few vines and stepping across some surprisingly sturdy portions of Screecher’s nest, and getting the sun in their eyes until they look down, and feel like they’re drowning.

On the other side of the wall, on the little shortcut path that winds between manor houses and on down towards the next street, sits a blond young man with a demon bird in his lap.

His features are… different. Higher cheekbones, a broader chin. His hair is several shades darker, and many inches shorter. His skin is darker, too, and unlined. There are no wrinkles around his eyes, or in furrows in his brow. But familiar eyes stare up at them, from a broad, fit frame, and it takes Uthvir a long time of just staring to even notice the incongruity of  _sitting_ on the path, and realize there’s a wheelchair, too.

“…Hello?” Thenvunin calls up, tentatively. “Serah? Is this your bird?”

Uthvir stares.

Screecher looks up at them with an impatient expression, and shrieks, but they barely even notice it until the bird flies up and starts accosting them. Pulling at them impatiently, and they react too slowly and end up unbalancing forwards. Screecher gives them a good kick and shove away from their nest, and they upend over the wall, and fall down the other side.

Thenvunin inhales, sharply, as they impact the ground. The sound shakes through them even more than the landing does.

“Serah!” he exclaims. “Holy shit, are you alright?!”

Uthvir hears a creak, and looks up to find that Thenvunin has gotten out of his wheelchair, and is leaning over them now. His eyes wide, his brow furrowed, hands poised like he’s not certain what to do with them.

“Did you land badly?” he asks, and when Uthvir doesn’t immediately answer, his hands flutter anxiously. “Did you hit your head? Hold on, I’ll call emergency…”

He moves to leave, turns back to the chair, but Uthvir reaches out and stops him without even thinking about it. Closing their hand over his wrist.

_Don’t go._

Thenvunin turns, and blinks at them.

“Did you understand what I said? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

Uthvir can’t blink. That would require closing their eyes, which would mean they stopped looking at him.

He’s wearing a printed t-shirt with an eagle on it.

His watch is purple.

His skin is warm, and dry.

“I’m alright,” they say, at last.

Thenvunin frowns, and it’s a frown they’ve seen before. It’s his ‘I don’t believe that’ frown. His worried frown, that tenses his lips, and draws down his brows. But some of his fear eases away, too. No longer quite  _so_  concerned that Uthvir has badly damaged themselves.

“You landed pretty hard,” he says. “I’m sorry. I was just… this bird seemed really insistent on leading me here. I thought it might live here, I didn’t expect it to attack you. What were you doing up there, anyway?”

Uthvir draws in a deep breath, and makes themselves let go of him. Before they do something stupid.

More stupid.

“The bird lives here,” they say. “It’s name is Screecher, and it’s a menace.”

Thenvunin frowns.

“I thought it seemed very nice,” he says. “It brought me… oh. Um. I think it might have stolen your watch? But. Well. It’s a bird, birds take things, they don’t really mean anything by it. Do you own many of them?” He asks, as Screecher swoops back down and nearly knocks  _him_ off of his feet in its exuberance. Uthvir has to swallow back a hiss, but Thenvunin just wobbles slightly and then makes his way the few steps back to his chair.

“Yes, yes, I know, but you knocked poor…. Um…”

Thenvunin looks at them.

“…Uthvir,” they supply.

“Poor Uthvir here off of that giant wall, and you really should apologize,” he concludes, as Screecher shoves an entire mother-of-pearl necklace at him. Thenvunin takes it, cooing at the demon bird, and Uthvir really, fervently wishes that winning him over was just that easy as an elf.

But after accepting the gift, Thenvunin looks guiltily towards them again.

“I’m assuming this is yours, too?” he asks.

Uthvir waves him off.

“It’s Screecher’s,” they say. “Sometimes I give it things. Discourages it from robbing the neighbours. It’s free to re-gift such trinkets as it pleases.” Their throat feels dry, and Fear is a disjointed mess.  _The wheelchair. Why is he in a wheelchair? How old is he? Where does he live? He’s going to vanish. He’s going to vanish, he’s going to die, he’s not going to like us, we’re going to do something and it will be terrible and we’ll hurt him and he’ll hate us, he can’t be real, he’s real, the damn **bird**  found him…_

“…This is… really nice jewellery…” Thenvunin observes, double-checking the necklace as if looking for the plastic parts.

“It would probably suit you more than the bird,” Uthvir replies.  _Get him more jewellery! All the jewellery! Buy his love, it’s the only way we’ll find it again!_

They take a moment to close their eyes and shake their head, mustering up the restraint that, just minutes ago, seemed to come so much more easily.

They might owe Selene a few apologies.

There’s really nothing to compare to this.

“Would you like to come inside?” they offer. “Through the front gate, perhaps?”

Thenvunin is still holding his new necklace like he suspects he really is supposed to give it back, while Screecher grooms his hair. The bird makes an encouraging, insistent noise, and Thenvunin glances at it, and then at Uthvir, before seeming to reach a decision.

“It does seem to want to show me its… nest?” he hazards.

“Oh. Yes, probably,” Uthvir agrees. “It’s gigantic.”

Screecher looks entirely too self-satisfied at that.

”What sort of bird is it?” Thenvunin asks, with increasing excitement. Leaning forward a little. “I’ve been trying to figure it out for  _days_  but I haven’t gotten anywhere. Mother swears up and down it must be some kind of a songbird because of the odd crest, but it’s much too big and the colouring is all wrong. And songbirds don’t normally fish, usually they just go for berries and fruits and things, but this one’s definitely not vegetarian.”

“I don’t actually know the species,” Uthvir admits. “I inherited it from someone who didn’t know, either.”

Thenvunin deflates, just a little.

“Well,” he says. “Maybe if I  _could_  see the nest, that would help offer more clues?”

“Certainly,” Uthvir allows, trying not to seem too eager. Screecher has eagerness covered by far, and they find themselves envious. Of course the  _bird_  gets to touch Thenvunin’s hair and sit in his lap and throw jewellery at him.

If Uthvir did it, it would just seem strange.

Right now, anyway.

_Different lifetime. He’s probably too different anyway, probably won’t even be interested in us at all…_

“This way,” they say, and gesture over to the side gate. Which, embarrassingly, is not actually that far off, and probably would have spared them an ignominious introduction. The path to it is clear and fully wheelchair accessible. This isn’t the first time they’ve seen Thenvunin have to use one, though he was much older then. The garden itself is a bit more challenging, given that a solid eighty percent of it has been taken over by the demon bird’s ambitions.

Thenvunin doesn’t seem to mind, though.

He gapes at the monstrosity of the nest. Branches woven and stacked together, forming intricate latticework in some places, almost more like an ant colony than anything a typical bird might build.

Uthvir stares, fixedly, at Thenvunin in return. Frowning at a little scar on the side of his neck.

“…Either you really love this bird, or you really hate this garden,” Thenvunin concludes.

Do they hate the garden, they wonder? It had been hard, in many ways, as the years passed but especially right after… things. To be alone. To have everyone torn away, one by one, by inevitability, until all that was left behind were the places they used to occupy. But they don’t hate the garden, they think. Screecher, at least, remained, and was alive; and so the garden had never seemed as unoccupied as other things might. There were days when Uthvir could pretend that they were just looking after the bird for a weekend, while their family was away.

It was a very long weekend, they suppose.

“I’m not impartial to the bird,” they finally allow.

Screecher sets themselves up in one of the higher perches of the nest, and starts making its ‘Thenvunin’ call.

“Wow,” Thenvunin says.

Uthvir swallows. This is his house; this is his bird. He might not know it, but it’s still true.

They’re going to have to let him go.

They’re going to have to let him  _leave,_  and just…  _hope_  he comes back. It’s not like with Dirthamen. There are no dire circumstances that they can see, no reason to detain him.

“You’ve clearly made a good impression on Screecher,” they say, after Thenvunin’s transfixed assessment of the garden has carried on in silence for several moments. Well, silence from them. Screecher is being noisy as it pleases, flying to different perches, showing off its architectural skills. Occasionally fluttering down to foist some other treasure off onto Thenvunin, until the man seems flustered by all that shiny things in his lap.

“I really didn’t do much,” Thenvunin insists. “It practically swooped in on me and just… demanded attention?”

“I’d be tempted to do the same,” Uthvir replies, before they can think the better of it.

Thenvunin’s cheeks darken, and his eyes widen a little. He glances at Screecher, like he’s not sure if he heard that right, and is honestly looking at the bird to confirm.

Screecher just calls at him happily, because Thenvunin is looking its way.

After a moment, Thenvunin settles for a laugh.

“Maybe it’s the chair?” he reasons. “It’s very shiny.”

“Who can say?” Uthvir asks, rather than really answering that. Their tongue almost folds in on itself in an effort not to point out Thenvunin’s many other virtues, in addition the primary one of  _being Thenvunin._

“Is this real gold…?” Thenvunin asks, holding up a bracelet of some kind.

“Probably,” Uthvir concedes. “The bird has an eye for quality.”

Again, that seems to fluster him a little.

“Well. Well, I’m glad I found where Screecher belongs, anyway,” he says, and then he looks a little wistful when said bird comes and lands on him and proceeds to demand pets. Uthvir stares at it and tries not to implode with envy, while Thenvunin brushes his fingers gently through Screecher’s stomach feathers, and then over to its wings in motions that are painfully familiar.

“Would you mind visiting?” Uthvir asks, in a rush of inspiration.

Thenvunin blinks at them.

“Screecher tends to pine whenever it doesn’t get what it wants,” they explain. “And it’s apparently taken a strong liking to you. It would be a great favour to me if you would come back. We could exchange numbers? You could phone ahead, whenever it’s convenient. Or just come by as you like. There’s a spare key for the garden gate. Though, I don’t know how difficult it is for you to get out here. May I ask where you live? Is it far?”

Thenvunin blinks at them, again. And then he looks at Screecher, and the hoard of jewellery in his lap. And then back up Uthvir, and the garden, and the house.

“It took me about a couple of hours to get here,” he admits.

_Hours._  He lives  _hours_  away. How long has Thenvunin been living hours away from them? They feel like they just got punched in the lungs.

But then he keeps going.

“I followed Screecher in, uh. Well. In my car, most of the way. It was just very adamant on the subject. And you know, some animals go and get help when their owners are injured, and I wondered if… but… um. Nevermind that,” he says.

Hours in a car is only  _slightly_  more mollifying than hours by wheelchair. But also worse off, they think, because that means it’ll be harder for him to reach them.

And then he clears his throat, and tilts his chin up, and Uthvir dies inside because  _Thenvunin._

“I mean, it’s not like I meant to be intrusive. Or startle you off the wall. Which you shouldn’t have been on in the first place, because that was very dangerous. You could have broken your neck. And you should probably set up some better security around this garden, so your bird doesn’t go escaping again. I mean I know you said you give it thing but it probably takes things from other people, too, and that’s… impolite. Not that the bird should know better. But responsible pet ownership is important. As impressive as this nest is, if it keeps going up the walls like this you’ll have a major safety hazard on your hands. It could make the wall crumble, or it could provide a pathway for strays and wild predators to get in, and then the next thing you know there’s a wyvern in your rose bushes and no one wants that. Even if you do, I’m sure your neighbours wouldn’t appreciate it. You really ought to take more care.”

Uthvir stares.

This Thenvunin doesn’t look like he could be far into his twenties, at the most. But he doesn’t have the affectations that Uthvir remembers from their early acquaintanceship. This is more like… mid-thirties Thenvunin, coming out of early-twenties Thenvunin’s mouth, with his late-sixties hair style and his late-seventies wheelchair.

What a brilliantly compelling package.

After a few moments, Thenvunin flusters a little under the attention. He does that thing with his hands, and looks at Screecher again.

“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?” he asks, again.

Uthvir wants to kiss him so badly they can almost taste it.

“It’s fine,” they say, instead. “How far did you drive?”

Thenvunin blinks.

“What?”

“You said you drove,” Uthvir reminds him. “How far? Where’s your car?”

“Oh. Um. My car’s back down at the end of the lane,” he admits, gesturing in that general direction. “I drove… a ways. I was worried about the bird, you see. It’s irresponsible to let exotic pets just go wandering around, and obviously it’s a pet, just going off of how it behaves. It’s very accustomed to people. My mother and I fed Screecher, by the way. I don’t know if it’s on a special diet, though, but that seemed better than letting it go hungry or risk it getting into the trash bins or something.”

Uthvir waves off his concern.

“It’s fine,” they say. Screecher subsists mostly on a diet of whatever it happens to feel like at the time, and that’s seen it happily thriving for quite some time. “You said it took you hours to get here. How many hours?” They might be harping on this, but Fear really,  _really_  wants to know where Thenvunin lives. So they can find him again.

So they don’t lose him again.

Thenvunin’s cheeks darken.

“I don’t see why that’s relevant,” he insists.

Uthvir swallows back an uncharacteristic  _please._

“Well. As I said, it would probably be pleasant for Screecher if you came and visited, sometime. But if it’s a long trip, I could help pay for gas,” they reason, fishing up the first possible excuse to cross their mind.

Thenvunin hesitates.

“It. Um,” he says, and clears his throat. “I drove from Qarinus.”

Uthvir stares.

“That’s a four hour drive.”

Thenvunin clears his throat again.

“Six, if you have to slow down to find a bird from time to time,” he admits.

Holy shit. Holy shit, he followed a bird down the highway for  _six hours_  to Arlathan. It really is him.

“I should probably head back, actually,” he says. “It’ll be dark by the time I get home, and then tomorrow I have to drive back out here for an appointment. I’m supposed to get a good night’s sleep before then.”

Uthvir continues to stare at him for a moment, though this time it’s more because Fear is having some kind of internal fit. Which probably technically means that  _Uthvir_  is having some kind of internal fit, but it’s much easier to phrase it the other way.

“I have rooms,” they blurt.

Thenvunin blinks.

Uthvir straightens up.

“By which I mean, all things considered, that sounds like a ludicrous amount of driving to do. Given that my irresponsible pet ownership is what brought you here in the first place, it would be the least I could do to put you up for the night,” they offer. “You could just… stay here, and then go to your appointment, without all the driving inbetween.”

Should they put him in his old room? Or would that be creepy? That sounds like the sort of thing the mysterious loner in a gothic romance novel might do, so it’s probably creepy, then. Well. He can sleep in their room, in that case. In their bed. All wrapped up in their blankets, in one of the most fortifiable and heavily warded places in the house.

Yes.

Good.

Thenvunin shifts around a bit in his chair.

“That’s very kind,” he says. “But I hardly know you. And most of my – um, my things, are at home. I appreciate the offer, but I think I’m just going to have to do a ludicrous amount of driving, as it happens.”

Dammit.

_Of course_  theirs is the one with a decent amount of self-preservation instinct.

_Proposition him!_  Fear hisses.  _Use sex!_

Uthvir almost swears at themselves, though, because it’s one thing for them to have propositioned Thenvunin when they were both essentially college students on equal footing, even if one of them happened to be a secret abomination. It’s something else entirely for hundreds-of-years-old Uthvir to proposition college-age-again Thenvunin.

They probably shouldn’t even be flirting with him.

Or.

Well.

Something?

“If that’s what you prefer,” they allow, swallowing down their myriad of protests. “Forgive me. Screecher brings back a lot of things, but it’s not every day he brings back Prince Charming.”

Thenvunin’s eyes go very wide. It doesn’t help him look any older. It makes Uthvir think of the very first time they had him in their arms; steadily realizing that there was more to what was going on than they’d first surmised. That they were going to have to tread carefully.

They can tread carefully again.

“At least let me buy you lunch?” they suggest.

Thenvunin dithers, a little.

“It’s four o’clock,” he says, but they think he looks flattered. Good.

“Dinner, then,” they reply, waving dismissively. “It’ll be harder to eat on the road. And there’s a reward for finding the bird, of course.”

That earns them a blink.

“There is?” Thenvunin asks. “I looked online, but I didn’t really see anything…”

“Hmm. I suppose I need to post in better forums,” Uthvir muses, and puts their hands in their pockets to try and help with the urge to reach over and touch the man. “But yes, a thousand dollar reward.”

They didn’t think Thenvunin’s eyes could get much wider.  _Dastardly,_  they muse upon themselves. But it’s the most restraint they can manage; he’s got a lap full of jewellery from  _the bird,_  after all, and they can hardly let a  _pet_  outshine them. Thenvunin sputters a bit and makes some half-hearted protests.

“At least let me give you back all of this when Screecher can’t see me do it,” he suggests, gesturing towards the jewellery in his lap.

“That’s all between you and the bird. Like I said, it’s their stuff,” Uthvir insists. Their lips twitching as Thenvunin’s expression twists towards frustration, obviously weighing the odds of offending the bird over the odds of successfully giving back its offerings. One of his hands traces over a necklace, and they suppose it makes sense, really. Screecher’s always been very particular, and if it’s known Thenvunin for very long… if it’s been  _planning_  to give him these things, ever since it began collecting them… well….

The bird does seem to know his tastes.

Hopefully, so does Uthvir.

“There’s a restaurant nearby that does all-day breakfast,” they mention, shifting their weight a little. “What do you say?”

They hold their breath as Thenvunin looks at them.

And then, tentatively, he smiles.

“If you insist.”


	2. New Beginnings

It is a very surreal experience.

Selene keeps glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, still half expecting him to vanish.

Or tuck and roll out of the car.

 

Not that she wouldn’t immediately pull over and go after him, but.

Would she go after him?

“ _We are not letting him get away_ _ **now**_ _.”_  Des insists. “ _Fear would never let me hear the end of it._ ”

 

Selene’s fingers tap lightly on the turn signal before she flicks it on and waits for the light in the turn lane. She doesn’t know if she _would_ chase him though, truthfully. She’d keep an eye on him, for sure. But if he found her company so terrible now…

She wonders if he was raised with chantry beliefs, this time around. Something else she’ll have to look into. Will he think she is a monster? Or will he understand again, if she tells him?

_It would certainly be ironic if his reincarnation killed me_ , she thinks wryly.

 

She lets out a sigh as she makes her turn, and forces a smile onto her face.

“So, Dirthamen,” she starts, her stomach flipping just at the sound of his name “Do you have any hobbies?”

“Nothing of note,” he answers cautiously.

 

Right. He doesn’t trust her.

She tries not to let that sting too much.

 

“No? Do you play any instruments? Piano, maybe?”

“I never had the opportunity.”

 

Selene resists the urge to bang her head against the steering wheel; of course he didn’t. He’s been raised in a foster system. Several hundred years old, and she’s still an idiot, she thinks.

Most of the rest of the drive is taken in silence, only the low hum of the radio playing between them.

 

She pulls into her ( _their)_  driveway, and retrieves his bags from the trunk of Uthvirs car.

Dirthamen is still seated in the front seat. With a small frown, she opens his door, tilting her upper body slightly. “Hey. Are you alright?”

He doesn’t answer right away, pausing to collect and sort his thoughts, she’s sure. His mind must be such a mess right now.

Not that his body is in much better shape, with the bruising and the cast.

Selene thinks it is probably a good thing Uthvir found him first.

 

“Where are we?” he finally settles on.

“Home,” she answers with a weak smile.

He seems skeptical, but actually gets out of the car and follows her inside, so she’ll take it as a win.

 

Almost immediately she sees a flaw in her plan; there are photos here, still.

 

Placing his bags carefully on the floor and asking him to wait for a moment, Selene does a quick sweep of the house. She grabs all of the photos she can find; ones of Dirthamen, Felasel, Darevas. Cirimeni, Miriel, Kel. Ana and Vena and Tas and their children. Serahlin, and Adannar, and everyone else. She thinks Uthvirs might be safe, but notes that Thenvunin is in them as well, and, well. If there are more of them out there, that might make things messy.

She piles them all into what had been a decorative basket and moves them into her bedroom closet before darting back to Dirthamen, still standing in the entryway.

Well, he still hasn’t run, so that’s a good thing.

 

“Sorry about that. Would you like a tour, or would you rather explore on your own? Once you’re settled we can go grocery shopping, or we can pick out some new sheets for you if you don’t like the ones here, or grab you some bath products in case you don’t want to smell like pink lemons and mandarin oranges. I mean if you don’t mind, you’re free to use it, of course. Pretty much everything here is available to you if you want it, and if you’re unsure you can just ask me, but I’ll probably say yes.”

 

Dirthamen nods and removes his shoes before stepping fully into the house. He goes off and up the stairs on his own, and Selene fights Des down to avoid following him up.

He spends an hour or so exploring the various rooms, most of which are empty save for furniture. She spends most of her time pacing through the kitchen.

When he comes back down, he seems nervous, which is worrisome.

“Is everything alright? Was something wrong?”

 

He shakes his head “I..may I have the second room on the left?” he asks, hesitantly.

 

Oh. It’s the only room without a bed, she thinks. It used to be Dirthamens office, but she can move a bed in there if he’d like it to be his own. Or buy him a new one. Whatever he wants, really.

“Of course you can. Would you like one of the beds from the other rooms, or would you like to select a new one for yourself?”

 

His eyes squint at her just slightly “Why are you doing this?”

She blinks. “Doing what?”

“This. Letting me stay here. Buying me things. What is it that you want from me?”

 

_Company. Companionship. **Love.**_

_I just don’t want to be alone again. Gods, please don’t leave me alone again. I missed you, and I love you, and I want you safe, and happy. Please let me give you those things. I will give you anything, **everything** , just please,  **don’t leave me**._

 

Her nails tap against the counter. “When I was young,” she sighs “I met someone who helped me, in ways I could never possibly repay. He, and a whole slew of our friends, showed me kindness, and love, and what family was supposed to be. They helped me cut out people I felt like I was supposed to care for, supposed to love, but who were doing nothing but using me, and harming me. Some of them were even my blood family.”

Dirthamen swallows. Selene continues.

“I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for them. Wouldn’t have accomplished half of what I have if someone hadn’t been kind enough to just give me a chance. So, I’m passing that on. I think you could accomplish great things, wonderful things, if someone just gave you the chance. I’d like to help you, if you’d let me. I will never force you to do anything against your will. If you ever want to leave, you’re free to go. If you ever want  _me_  to leave, I will. I’d just…I’d like to keep you safe, and give you the chance to flourish. If you’ll allow me to, that is.”

 

He waits to answer. Scrutinizes her, looking for the trick, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For her to say ’ _just kidding I’m actually going to sell you, or exploit you, or kill you in your sleep_ ’. She won’t, though. She never would. He waits for a long time, and then his eyes dart back up to the staircase before moving back to Selene.

 

“…I would like a new bed, please.”

 

She smiles. “I can arrange that.”


	3. A Thousand Dollars

When Thenvunin gets back from returning the wayward bird, he honestly isn’t sure what to make of the whole… encounter. With the beautiful wealthy stranger and the falling off of walls and the flirting - were they flirting? Thenvunin is fairly certain they were - and the suddenly being a  _thousand dollars richer._

But he knows he has to tell  _someone._

He’s exhausted from the drive, but when he gets home, his mother’s still up and waiting for him. His legs are killing him from so much time spent driving, and he’s not looking forward to tomorrow. Another long trip, and then X-Rays at Arlathan General, and those are expensive and he’s never liked being X-Ray’d, to be honest. He’d much rather go to a Healer, but surgeon who’s potentially working on him won’t accept magical diagnostics.

So. X-Rays it is.

His mother helps get him settled on the couch, and disappears for a minute, before coming back with a mug of instant coco. She looks like she’s had a long day, too, and probably not just chasing birds. They’ve got enough savings to cover her recent bout of unemployment, but the longer it goes on for the closer they’re cutting it, and so far her job searches have come up empty.

“I know you said you weren’t sure how long you’d be gone, but this is a lot later than I thought,” she tells him, settling down beside him and fluffing a cushion for him.

“I know, Mamae, I’m sorry. But, it worked out really well,” he assures her. “The  bird belonged to a rich elf living in Arlathan. There was a reward for it, and they paid me straight away and everything - a  _thousand dollars._  That’s going to help, right?”

Mirena does a double-take.

“A thousand dollars? For a  _bird?”_  she asks.

Thenvunin opts not to mention how shocked he’d been, as well.

“I told you it was a rare kind of a bird,” he says, instead. “Probably worth a lot more than that. It was very intelligent and sociable, after all.” It also knocked its owner off of a garden wall, and overran almost the entirety of said garden with a ‘nest’ that looked like it was meant to house a small family of elves rather than birds. 

Thenvunin’s not sure how to explain the jewellery, either. Maybe he doesn’t have to, he thinks. He left it all in the trunk of his car, for now. It’s probably fake, in hindsight. Certainly it had all  _looked_  real, but it couldn’t be. Not really. No one gave real gold and platinum and gemstones to a  _bird._  It might still be worth something as costume jewellery or convincing fakes, though. 

He can get it appraised. Maybe pawn some of it, and take his mother and Wonder out to dinner.

“Well, I guess I owe you an apology, da’vhenan. Apparently chasing after birds is a lot more lucrative than I thought,” his mother murmurs at last, and Thenvunin decides, too, that he’s going to leave  _most_  of the stranger elements of the tale out of his description of it to her. It’ll probably just make her worry, and she has enough to worry about as it is.

Besides which, he’s tired. And aching, in that way that’s going to make actually falling asleep harder than it should be, all things considered. He doesn’t stay up much past finishing his coco.

“I’ll drive you tomorrow,” his mother says. “You overdid it today, and it’s not like I don’t have the time.”

“I can manage,” Thenvunin insists, but she waves him off.

“It’ll be fun,” she says. “We can try to figure out what you want to spend your thousand dollars on.”

“Rent,” he informs her, and she gets that stubborn look on her face.

“Paying rent is  _my_  job. You earned this money, you should do something fun with it,” she tells him. “Something just for yourself.”

“Mamae, I’m a grown man. I’m allowed to pay my rent. I’m  _supposed_  to pay my rent,” he counters. “We can do something fun - we can go to lunch, and maybe go to the city’s aviary. But I already know what I want to spend the rest of that money on. I want to help.”

His mother frowns.

“We’re not that badly off,” she insists.

“We don’t have to be badly off for me to help, I’m a grown man!” Thenvunin reminds her, again. She relents, after a few minutes; but he thinks it’s more to make certain that he goes to bed than anything else. His legs protest the whole trip down the hall, as if they’ve finally decided that now that they’re home and can rest, working  _at all_  should no longer be a priority. The chronic pain that lances up his thighs is there, of course. It’s always there when he walks, ever since he was fourteen and his doctors botched the hell out of an important surgery.

He lets out a long breath when he climbs into bed, and gets the covers over himself. It’s almost too warm, but that eases the ache a little, so he leaves it be.

His guess proves right, though. He lies there for about half an hour, but can’t quite fall asleep. So after a few minutes he reaches for a distraction, grabbing up his phone and double-checking the time - not too late - and then texting Wonder’s number.

 _I found the mystery bird’s owner!!!!_  he sends.

There’s not much of a wait, before he gets a response.

 _Some obsessive old magister who collects magical birds?_  Wonder guesses. _Accused you of stealing her prize-winning Shriek-Warbling Raptor?_

 _No!!!_  he replies.  _Hotter. V. much, much hotter!!!_  He adds in a little thermometer emoji and the heart-eyes one for illustrativeness. 

There’s another pause.

 _Pic?_  Wonder asks.

 _No. I didn’t think 2 ask for one,_  Thenvunin admits, following it up with a slew of frustrated and frowny-faces.  _But listen, they live in this mansion and I think they’re the only person there and they were kind of weird and they let their bird give me jewellery and they gave me reward money for finding it, 2!!! And I think they were hitting on me!!!!_

 _Well of course they were hitting on you. You’re a beautiful stranger who brought back their lost pet,_  Wonder replies.

 _They bought me lunch and spent half the time just staring at me,_  Thenvunin admits. Normally he would chalk that up to them being uncomfortable, or maybe trying to figure out what he needs the chair for if he could stand up, or something like that. 

But in this case, it was… different. Not-quite-creepy, although he thinks maybe it should have been. 

 _Creepily staring?_  Wonder asks, of course. 

 _No. I think they’re just really really lonely,_  Thenvunin admits.

There’s a pause, then, and he remembers the look in their eyes. Keen and fixated, and always sort of like they had to force themselves to drag their gaze away whenever they turned it somewhere else.

 _Don’t take this the wrong way, but this sounds like the beginning of some kind of paranormal romance novel,_  Wonder informs him.  _Like they’re going to turn out to be a vampire or a werewolf or something. Werebird? Maybe they ARE the bird! Did you see them both together at the same time??_

 _Yes, I did,_  Thenvunin assures her, adding in his favourite bird emoji. Just because he can.

_Okay but I’m just saying. Crazy lonely shapeshifter falls in love with you while they are a bird - it could happen, you’re at your most loveable with birds._

Thenvunin considers it for half a second. But, no, he definitely saw them together. Although maybe Uthvir  _could_ be a shapeshifter. It fits. Skilled mages can do a lot of stuff, and being that rich and living in Arlathan, they’re probably a mage, right?

 _They gave me their number. Do u think I should go out with them???_  he asks.

There’s a longer pause this time.

When Wonder replies, though, it’s with a change in subjects.

 _Do you need a driver for going into the city tomorrow?_ she asks, instead.

 _My mother’s taking me,_  he assures her.

 _Okay. Let me know if that changes, I should probably go to sleep,_  Wonder tells him.

 _Oh. Okay. Goodnight!!!!_  he replies, with several sleepy faces and smiling moons.

Well, so much for that distraction, he supposes. Though it  _is_  getting kind of late. He turns his phone over in his hands, and then launches an app for a calming game to try and relax enough to fall asleep.

When he finally does, he dreams of massive brown wings, and snow, and of all things - dancing.

 

~

 

Mirena is worried about her son.

That isn’t exactly a new thing. Mothers always worry about their children, and Mirena in particular has always had a lot to worry about. But in specific, right now, Mirena is worried that her son seems to have taken up with some sort of… eccentric, wealthy, byronic elf – probably much older than he is – and that this relationship has produced a sudden upswing in their financial status.

Ostensibly, over a bird.

Mirena is not an idiot.

The fourth time her son goes to ‘visit with the bird’ which has gotten ‘quite attached’ to him, and apparently ‘pines’ for him, she insists on going along with him. Things haven’t always been easy in their lives, but she has done her best to make sure he’s had the most she could give him, and she’ll be damned if she’s going to let him sell sexual favours to some jumped-up would-be magister just because the job market’s been a little slow. She’s started to notice people, too. Odd people, like figures waiting at bus stops but then not getting on the buses, or lurking around their street. She’s not sure what to make of them all, but in the end, that just has her even more on edge.

Rich people make enemies.

“So, tell me about this Uthvir of yours,” she commands, as they drive.

Thenvunin blushes, tellingly, and she has to fight to keep the frown off of her face.

“They’re not any Uthvir of  _mine,_  Mamae,” he protests. “It’s like I told you, their bird got attached me. You know how important socializing is to birds.”

Yes, she does, because it had been one of the main reasons why she hadn’t gotten Thenvunin a pet bird when he had wanted one so badly as a child. Birds are smart pets, and most of them need a lot of looking after. And Thenvunin had  _also_  needed a lot of looking after, and the person she’d spoken with at the pet shop had explained that parents really should not buy their children pets and actually expect them to do all of the caretaking, that she would have to pick up the slack. Which had sounded reasonable, and also meant that there was no way they would be getting a bird. Looking after Thenvunin had to come first. Always.

Some of her resolve to interfere wavers a little as she remembers her son, tears in his eyes as she explained to him that birds were  _expensive,_  and needed a  _lot_  of time and attention, and since Mamae had to work so much and Thenvunin had to be in the hospital so much, they couldn’t have one. They couldn’t afford to have someone come and look after the bird for them. It wouldn’t be fair to the bird if they took it in and then didn’t look after it properly.

Which had all made sense, and her son had nodded in understanding, even as his little lip wobbled and he sniffed and just looked so  _horribly bereft._

But then she reminds herself about the mysterious windfalls of cash her son has been producing, and that this  _isn’t_  just about some new friend he’s made who happens to own a bird.

“Then why are they paying you?” she asks.

“Because gasoline costs money and my time is worth something,” he says.

“Your time is worth a hundred dollars an hour to play with a bird?” Mirena replies, resisting the urge to look at him as she keeps her eyes on the road.

“It’s the going rate of payment for bird specialists. That’s what Uthvir says, anyway. I don’t know why they’d lie about it. I offered to just come for free, and then I said it was fine if they paid for gas, because that  _is_  expensive, and then they said that time was valuable and it would be an insult to their integrity not to compensate me for mine, and we argued a little, and then I said they could pay me whatever they pay anyone who usually helps with their birds, and they said ‘done’ and I didn’t even know how much it was until they gave me the first check!” Thenvunin explains. “I tried to tell them it was too much, but apparently if I take less than that I’ll be devaluing the important labour of people who work in the industry.”

Mirena glances at her son and tries to figure out if he’s lying to her.

She doesn’t think he is. As a general rule he’s never been especially talented at keeping secrets, but maybe he’s gotten better at it, and she just didn’t notice?

Thenvunin actually learning how to keep secrets from her is not a pleasant prospect.

After a minute, he sighs.

“I know you’re worried about it,” he tells her.

She keeps her eyes on the road.

“Of course I’m worried about it,” she agrees. “I don’t want anyone taking advantage of you.”

“But that’s just it, Mamae! All they do is pay me too much to come and look after their bird. They haven’t even… I mean, if they  _are_  planning anything untoward, they are certainly taking their time about it…” he says, trailing off as his cheeks pink, a little. And then he clears his throat, and she remembers his first crush in highschool. How self-conscious he’d been, how he’d never really  _said_  it but she knew he worried that no one would ever like him back.

How he’d still thought highly enough of himself to not go lunging after crumbs, the first time someone actually  _did_  show interest in him.

She feels a swell of pride, and worry, and it comes out in a long breath as she makes the turn off onto the road that will lead into Arlathan. Ending up behind a massive truck, of course, which slows their commute to a crawl, until they reach the first passing lane. Thenvunin goes quiet, and after a while, reaches over to switch the radio on.

Mirena misses the old radio show that used to come out of the local stations near Arlathan. When she was Thenvunin’s age, it was never hard to find a host or two talking about the latest political issues and recent upheavals. But they’ve all been fired, now, and the shows never seem to talk about what’s going on anymore. It’s just an endless stream of celebrity gossip and lots of ‘classic oldies’ stations, playing benignly nostalgic hits.

After a while Thenvunin starts rubbing his thighs.

“Do you need me to pull over?” she offers. Sometimes the vibrations from a lot of driving bother him.

“No, it’s fine,” he assures her.

She stops at the next rest stop anyway, claiming she wants a bottle of sparkling water. Thenvunin goes for a little walk, just to stretch out some of his aches, and then they set off again. Mirena glances at him out of the corner of her eye, taking note of him, trying to see if he looks too pale or wan or like he’s biting back some pain. But he doesn’t have that telltale tightness in his eyes, so after a few more minutes, she relaxes back into the drive.

The house Thenvunin directs her to, once they finally get into the city, is in one of the nicer districts. Mirena is certain she’s never been there before – the times she’s come to Arlathan, it’s mostly been in the Mythal District’s inner segments, to take Thenvunin to the hospital there. When she was a girl her parents brought her for a weekend, once, for the re-opening of the Museum of Elvhen Art & Culture, which was in the June District. Her parents had driven her around and around the city, in their nice rental car, letting her gape at all the buildings and marvel at the parks and public gardens. They still hadn’t driven up towards any of the wealthier houses, though. That was around about the time when more magisters began moving into the city.

So she has no idea why, the minute she turns down the street leading up to this Uthvir’s house, she gets an intense moment of déjà vu.

The feeling persists all the way up to the manor itself, until she finally manages to shake it off. The house is gated, and very fine, though also very  _dated._  It looks as though it hasn’t seen a renovation in decades. The style is notably different from its nearest neighbours, with cream siding instead of the cold steely blues and greys which have been popular of late, and spiral patterns on the roof tiles, and stained glass at the tops of the windows.

It’s old enough that she would suppose there is some attempt at ‘retro chic’ going on, in fact, except that it’s  _immediately_  apparent to her eye that this isn’t a matter of recreation.

This manor is antiquated, and has been  _preserved._

But it also doesn’t seem quite old enough to be considered ‘historical’ by Arlathan’s standards, either.

“What an odd place,” Mirena murmurs, as her gaze fixes onto the double front doors.

She has to shake off the oddest feeling. Almost as if she’s gone home to visit her parents; which is preposterous, because her parents never lived in a house like this. Outside of photographs and period films, she doesn’t think she’s ever even  _seen_  a house like this.

“You don’t have to come with me, you know,” Thenvunin tells her, interrupting her odd train of thought. “It really isn’t all that interesting. I’ll just look after Screecher for a few hours. You could go into the city, if you wanted. Maybe do some shopping? Or go to a salon. Uthvir says they had some very nice salons in the Sylaise District, and downtown. I wouldn’t mind paying for it…”

“Don’t be silly,” Mirena murmurs, and shakes her head again. Right. Son. Mysterious stranger. Suspicious amounts of money being added to their bank balance.

She gets out of the car, and heads towards the back to pull out Thenvunin’s chair.

As soon as her son is out, an ear-splitting cry breaks through the air, and a massive raptor descends upon him. Mirena startles, but then relaxes as Thenvunin just laughs and greets the over-enthusiastic bird, which scrambles over the car’s hot roof and then collides with Thenvunin, almost more like some kind of spiky, over-enthusiastic dog than a bird.

“Hello, Screecher!” Thenvunin cheerfully greets.

The bird lives up to its name in a series of fervent replies, and then starts plucking at Thenvunin’s front pockets, until he laughs and pulls out the bag of treats he brought.

Mirena turns away again, focused on getting his chair set up for him. She’s just about to close the back of the car again when she hears gravel crunching, and looks over to see an unfamiliar elf approach.

It’s probably a testament to her expectations that she doesn’t think they are Uthvir, at first.

Uthvir, in her mind, is someone past middle-age. Eccentric, perhaps, but also probably friendly-seeming. Maybe with one of those smiles that doesn’t quite reach their eyes. Good-looking but also faintly unsettling, like the magisters she sees on the news; like someone who has cultivated an air of approachability, precisely  _because_  they are dangerous.

The elf she sees coming towards them, though, barely looks much older than her son. They’re dressed in thick, black jeans, and a leather jacket with spiked studs on it, and their countenance makes Mirena think more of the sad people she’s seen at hospitals than anything. Her first thought is that they must be another ‘employee’, and she feels a pang of worry at the notion.

“Good morning, Uthvir!” Thenvunin greets, then, and Mirena blinks twice.

“Good morning, Thenvunin,” Uthvir replies, in a measured set of tones that seem to have been carefully rationed out of deep well of sentiment.

Mirena blinks twice  _again,_  as they look at her, and smile just a little bit.

“This is my mother,” Thenvunin explains, rounding towards her from the other side of the car, and still carrying his new bird friend with him. “She has some business in the city so we came together. Mamae, this is Uthvir.”

“I am pleased to meet you,” Uthvir says, inclining their head politely.

Mirena returns the gesture.

“Likewise,” she tells them, and then remembers herself. Whatever expectations may have been dashed, she thinks, she still needs to know just what is going on. Wealthy  _young_ people are hardly less perilous than their elders, after all, and she won’t have someone treating her son like an amusing diversion. He’s not some toy, not something to be  _bought._

A few seconds slip awkwardly past.

Uthvir gestures towards the house.

“Perhaps you would like to come in?” they offer. “You’ve had a long drive. I’ve got… food…”

They manage to say this with the air of someone who doesn’t ordinarily. Mirena chalks that up to the prevailing awkwardness of the moment, however, and lets Thenvunin accept the offer on their behalf. Uthvir nods, and manages another strange smile, and then gestures the both of them inside. Through the front door, and into the manor itself.

The place is a little sparsely furnished, despite the style of the exterior. Mirena has an image in her mind of what the interior should look like. Probably cobbled together from impressions built out of film sets and her lingering preconceptions. There’s no white sitting set in the front foyer, however, no large painting of a pond, no glass and crystal end tables. Though the lighting fixtures match the structure of the building, the front entryway is just an empty room.

The sitting area beyond it is furnished and clean, though the furnishings don’t really match the overall ambience of the room itself. Mirena glimpses what looks to be an empty formal dining room, as Uthvir leads them to the kitchen, which is much more what she expects. Antique built-ins, and a bar, and a fancy coffee maker sitting on marble countertops. There’s a small dining set, too, easier for Thenvunin to get into than the bar stools, and Uthvir gestures them both towards it. A plate of cookies is resting in the middle of the small table. Uthvir opens up the fridge and pulls out what looks like a platter of appetizers, as well, and brings it over.

“Have as much as you like,” they say. “There’s not much to drink. Just water and juice. And coffee, if you are willing to wait.”

“A glass of water would be lovely,” Mirena allows. She glances around the kitchen again. “With a house this size, I would expect some staff around. Are they part-time?”

“No. No staff,” Uthvir tells her. “There used to be some, but, circumstances changed and I… never replaced anyone. Didn’t see a need. I can take care of most maintenance myself, and it  _is_  just me… and Screecher…”

They trail off, as the bird in question sets about tugging at her son’s hair.

Thenvunin clucks at it, and pets its feathers in return.

Well, Mirena supposes that if nothing else, the bird  _does_  seem to be in love with him.

“How long have you lived here?” she asks Uthvir, as they settle into a free chair.

“A long time,” they reply. “This house used to belong to my husband. I moved in here with him when we got married, years ago.”

Mirena blinks.

“You’re  _married?”_  she blurts, almost offended by the revelation. They’ve been going after her son for who-knows-what and they  _have_  a husband? Perhaps it’s an open relationship, but even so. Mirena is not naïve. Wealth and privilege and an already-married elf spell trouble, even if Uthvir themselves doesn’t really fit with her preconceptions. Maybe it’s this husband of theirs who’s the real predator. Priming them to keep an eye out for young, beautiful,  _vulnerable_  types.

“I was,” Uthvir tells her, though, and derails things somewhat again.

“Oh,” she allows. Thenvunin is looking at them with keen interest, now. She suspects he didn’t know. “Divorced?”

Uthvir shakes their head.

“Ah, no,” they tell her. “He… passed on. Old age.”

Mirena raises an eyebrow.

An older man, then. Possibly one of those magisterium types. That could explain some things, she thinks. Like why there are so few furnishings around, and why Uthvir seems so unexpected. For the first time she finds herself contemplating a new possibility. A young elf, alone in a big house, with a dead, elderly husband. Seemingly no ties except for a bird – and inherited pet? – and an unusual interest in Thenvunin. Who is around their same age, and is not terribly intimidating. Not that her son isn’t very capable, because he is much stronger than people tend to expect, but he’s not  _threatening._

She looks Uthvir over again, with fresh eyes. ‘Years ago’, they say, but if they are Thenvunin’s age, they couldn’t have been very old at all when they got married.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she offers.

They accept the condolences with an inclination of their head. Thenvunin fidgets a bit, and then helps himself to some of the refreshments.

“Are these apricot cookies?” he asks, with a measured sort of delight.

Uthvir smiles at him.

Mirena can’t detect anything except for a surprising amount of fondness in the gesture.

“They are,” they say. “There is a historic bakery in the city that’s been making them for a very long time. I hope you like them.”

Thenvunin ends up eating six of them, so Mirena thinks it’s safe to say that he does. She finds herself rather partial to them as well, and in fact, most of the offerings spread out for them are very nice. Even the items she doesn’t know, like a strange little green jelly served on cured meats, end up being very tasty. The conversation veers towards the safer shores of complimenting and discussing the food, and when Mirena requests it, Uthvir gives her the name of the little specialty shops where they procured it all from.

“Do you need any help with your errands?” they wonder.

“What?” Mirena asks, and then recalls her excuse. “Oh. No, I do not actually have any errands. Thenvunin just said that because he’s embarrassed that I came to meet you.”

Thenvunin makes a pained sound.

 _“Mother,”_  he protests.

She pats his arm.

“It’s alright, darling,” she says. “I’m fairly certain they already figured that out. Why don’t you go take that bird out to its nest while I finish interrogating them? The way it keeps flapping, I think it wants to be outside.”

Uthvir looks rather wistfully amused.

Her son looks mortified.

“I didn’t bring you here to  _interrogate_  them, for goodness sakes!” Thenvunin insists.

“It’s alright,” Uthvir declares, glancing at him. Mirena watches as the two lock gazes, wondering at the real nature of their camaraderie. Thenvunin has a crush, of that she’s certain. Uthvir is… harder to pin down, even with the new perspective on them. She’s not convinced that they aren’t dangerous. But she’s starting to think that they really don’t mean any harm, either.

The bird steals a mouthful of cured pork from the table, and the mood is broken as Thenvunin tuts and hastily pulls it back out of its beak, chiding the animal because, apparently, that’s not good for it. The distraction doesn’t get him to actually take her suggestion, but he  _does_  move further away from the table, as Screecher squawks and shrills protests. Her son knows where to find more suitable treats to make amends with, it seems.

She looks at Uthvir, as the racket moves towards the garden door.

No more beating around the bush, she thinks.

“Why are you paying my son a hundred dollars an hour to play with birds?” she wonders.

Uthvir tilts their head, considering.

“I like him,” they say.

Mirena taps her finger against the side of her water glass.

“And when you don’t like him anymore?” she wonders.

Uthvir leans back.

“You’re presuming I’ll get sick of him,” they note.

“It’s a possibility,” Mirena points out. “Easy come, easy go. My son is a wonderful person. But I don’t know you and I don’t know what you want, or what you’ll do if you don’t  _get_  what you want. And that makes you dangerous.”

To her surprise, Uthvir nods in what seems to be an approving fashion.

“Would it help if I signed something?” they wonder. “Right now his pay is technically tax free. I don’t like giving money to the magisterium. But if you would prefer something more formal and official, legally binding, then that can be arranged. I’m not purchasing anything from your son but his services as a petsitter. Which he is exemplary at. I can say definitively that Screecher has never liked anyone else quite so much. I like him, too, but I have no intention of trying to buy what cannot be bought.”

Mirena blinks, and then considers the matter.

“I… suppose that would help, yes,” she allows.

Uthvir nods, again.

Curiouser and curiouser, she thinks.

But, even so, by the time Thenvunin and Screecher come back, she finds her unease is much less than it was for the entire drive over.


	4. Games

Selene isn’t thrilled when Dirthamen tells her he got a job. Some sort of menial retail work in a shop near enough that he can walk there and back. Barely minimum wage, but it’s honest, at least.

He’s insisting on  _paying her rent_. She has to bite her tongue to keep from blurting out how ridiculous it is that he wants to pay rent on a house he already owns.

She opens a high interest savings account to dump whatever he gives her into instead, and makes sure he’s listed as a beneficiary.

 

She keeps trying to convince him to go to school, explore his interests. Gives him brochures for Universities all over the world; Antiva, Orlais, Tevinter, Arlathan.

Denerim.

They never make it off the kitchen counter.

 

Wondering if maybe he’s just intimidated by the idea of university in general, she attempts to change tactics. She scans the community bulletin boards when she’s in town, taking fliers for painting classes, tutors, sewing, dancing, anything she thinks might even remotely catch his eye.

 

Nothing seems to work.

 

Their conversations have improved, at least. He’s been making his way through her book collection, so she’s been having more brought in from other locations for him. He asks her about them at dinner usually, when he isn’t working the night shift. He still won’t tell her much about himself, but her own research hasn’t exactly been a dead end.

 

She’s already set some wheels in motion to reclaim the Elven Youth institute. Like hell she’s going to let that sort of ‘business’ continue, now that she knows about it. She feels guilty enough, looking over the records of other children that were a part of the program.

A disturbing number of them just disappear.

Something else she’ll need to look into.

 

She and Des have been looking into Falon'din, particularly. He was long buried by the time she had met Dirthamen last time, and it wasn’t a topic he enjoyed speaking about. Selene is fairly certain she understands why people would be lead to murder him though, as she flips through his records. Too young to have made most of these mistakes, she thinks with a hint of empathy. Then she remembers Dirthamen, bruised and injured and alone, left to take the fall for his brothers faults.

Perhaps some people are just irredeemable, in the end.

 

Des informs her that if she still can’t stomach killing a person with her own hands, there are options they could take to ensure that Dirthamen and Falon'dins paths don’t cross again. At least in this life.

She meets with a few of the spirits that would be involved in the ritual over several nights. When a spirit of Sympathy informs her that it would have a lasting effect on Dirthamen as well though, Selene shoots it down. They also managed to track his brother to Rivain, at least.

 

After conferring with (and being hung up on by) Uthvir, Selene settles on asking Melarue for…'assistance’ with the Falon'din problem. They are more than happy for the distraction, and promise to keep Selene updated as the situation progresses.

Selene thanks them, and goes back to work.

 

Dirthamen has already left for his shift when she emerges from her room in the morning, rubbing some of the strain of staring at a screen for hours on end from her eyes. She plucks a water bottle from the fridge, noting that he seems to have devoured the strawberries already.

She’ll have to go out and pick up some more.

 

She showers, and does a bit of routine cleaning around the house. Hesitates outside of his room. She’s been trying to give him his privacy, respecting whenever he closes his door, or needs space to go out on his own. It’s driving herself and Des insane, when all she really wants to do is cuddle with him on the couch, and put on a bad movie and let him run his fingers through her hair. Of course his own hair is fairly long this time, and she certainly wouldn’t be opposed to letting him lay his head in her own lap instead if he’d prefer. She’s flexible.

 

He is so  _young_  now, she thinks.

_'He is an adult,_ ’ Des argues.

_'Barely_ ,’ she scoffs. ’ _You can’t really deny that the age difference is going to be an issue._ ’

_'If you are expecting him to catch up, I have some bad news for you. And it’s only, what, a year or two younger than when you met him the first time? That’s hardly a drastic difference._ ’

_'But it is enough of one,’_  she sighs.  _'If anything is going to happen, he will need to make the first move._ ’

_'Then nothing is ever going to happen,’_  Des groans. He pauses though, as a thought occurs to him.  _'What if he meets someone else, while you are waiting for him to show an interest in you?’_

The water in her bottle begins to turn to steam before she carefully puts it down with a deep breath. Her first instinct of course is ’ _we get rid of them_ ’ but there’s a lot of Des in that thought, and it is incredibly unhealthy, and unhelpful. Dirthamen doesn’t need her telling him who he can and can’t be around.

’ _Then we support him, so long as they don’t have ill intentions. It’s good for him to connect with other people._ ’

_'Sure. Keep that in mind when someone else is blowing him in his old office.’_

Selene thinks she might be ill at that.

Fresh air. That’s what she needs. Just..some fresh air.

With a quick grab of her purse, she locks up behind her, and heads into town.

 

She supposes she’ll have to give Uthvir back their car at some point, but since they haven’t decided on when they should meet up again yet, she’ll use it while she can. She taps her fingers along the steering wheel while she’s stopped at a traffic light, groceries in the trunk.

Of course there’s a chance Dirthamen will meet someone else. It is a new life for him. Even marriage ends, after all. 'Til death do us part’. He  _did_  die, so of course he has every right to be with whoever he’d like. Even the moments she’s had with him over the last few weeks have been more than she ever thought she would get.

She should be more thankful, and less selfish.

She can feel Des’s eye-roll as he oh so helpfully reminds her that she is part of a _Desire_  demon. Selfishness is part of the gig.

 

An older looking game store catches her eye, distracting her as she drives slowly past it.

She thinks back to their game nights. Bent over the coffee table, the sound of dice rolling, cards being flipped, tiles shifted. Darevas and Felasel fighting over the railroads in monopoly, before it had been banned from the household. Dirthamens self satisfied smirk whenever he managed to solve Clue before Selene did.

She switches lanes and pulls into the parking lot.

–

 

Dirthamen is home by the time she gets back. She’s thankful for it, as he pulls open the door for her, his eyes wide. She stops fumbling with her keys and grins at him past the enormous stack of board and card games she is carrying in her arms. She drops the first stack off in the living room, before going back out to the car for the rest.

 

She ended up purchasing about 40 games, at the end of the day. The shop owner told her she was welcome to return whenever she’d like, and added her to a newsletter for new releases and expansions.

When she comes back in, kicking the door carefully closed behind her with grocery bags dangling from her arms, Dirthamen is turning over a few of the boxes in his hands quizzically.

“What are these for?”

“For fun,” Selene grins, dropping off the rest of the games. She puts away the food quickly, and returns to the living room, watching from the door frame for a few moments while he carefully reviews her purchases.

“I got more strawberries for you. If you want them.”

He nods “Thank you.”

“No problem,” she smiles, walking towards him “Anything catch your eye?”

 

He blinks, and pauses for a few moments. “Did you buy these for me?”

 

“For us, technically. I was hoping we could play them sometime,” she shrugs, trying to be casual about the large amount of money she just dropped on them. A bit more than double his brothers debt had been, but hopefully he won’t notice that.

Judging by his frown, she thinks he may have picked up on it though.

 

“Is it too much?” she asks, more quietly than she means to. She eyes the pile again, that a moment ago had been a source of joy and excitement and potential. Now she wonders if it just looks like desperation and loneliness to him. Someone who is trying too hard to be his friend, for reasons he still isn’t entirely sure of.

Maybe she’s actually gotten  _worse_  at this, she panics.

 

“No,” he reassures her. “I…enjoy games such as these. Thank you.”

Her stomach flips at the approval, and she tries to contain herself, but she’s sure she’s beaming anyways.

“Great! We can-are you hungry? I can cook dinner while you set one up, or we can play first, or we can just eat first, or, you know. Whatever you want, Dirthamen.”

 

“Food would be adequate,” he allows, cracking a small smile.

Selene feels like she could float away, it’s been so long since she’s seen that look. It’s his 'you’re-ridiculous-but-in-a-completely-endearing-way’ smile.

Definitely a positive sign.

 

“Ok, I will just-I’ll go make some finger foods then, and you pick out and set up the game and we’ll just-yes, ok. This is great! I’ll just-I’ll be right back.”

Selene practically skips into the kitchen, assembling small sandwiches along with a fruit and vegetable tray, some chips and dip, and a few store-bought blueberry muffins.

She carries them back out to the living room, where Dirthamen is reading through the rules, the board set up before him. He glances up at her and smiles again.

“Do you need help carrying anything?”

 

She swallows, and shakes her head, trying not to lose her composure at the fact that he finally,  _finally_ , looks comfortable in their home, his hoodie laid out on the couch behind him, feet bare, hair falling around his shoulders.

It is a very close call, as she sets the tray down between them.

Most of his bruises have healed already, and the cast should be coming off any day now. She gives it a quick once over again, casting a small amount of healing magic through the injury and trying not to get distracted when her fingers brush his bare arm.

She notes his own cheeks flush just a bit at the contact though, and Des noticeably perks up at a few of the thoughts that are running through Dirthamens mind.

_'Oh. Maybe this isn’t such a lost cause after all.’_

 

Selene releases his arm before things can progress any further though, clearing her throat and turning back to the table.

“So! How does this game work?”

–

Selene wakes in the fade that night to a familiar sight.

Des must be trying to persuade her into being more aggressive, she thinks.

Before her is the sight of the town homes living room, a surprisingly realistic Dirthamen reclining comfortably on the couch. Shirtless.

She takes a moment to admire his dark hair curling around his neck, and framing him in a way that only amps up her already strong desires.

Her horns must be showing by now, as she feels her tail swaying behind her.

She strolls towards him with a predatory grin, and he looks up at her in surprise, and then  _interest_.

 

Selene saunters up to the illusion, and purrs. “Well, well, don’t we look comfortable.”

He swallows, and her tail flicks in silent approval. She traces a finger slowly down his chest, enjoying the shiver that runs through him. Humming, her hands reach the waistline of his jeans and casually flip open the button. Selene takes her time, admiring the view while she unzips and slowly, very slowly, drags his pants off, leaving him in only a pair of boxers that do nothing to hide his growing arousal.

 

She licks her lips and swings one leg over his hips, effortlessly straddling him. Her own desires grow, feeding off the interest and curiosity and  _want_ pouring out of the illusion when she gives it a casual grind. Des has really outdone himself this time, she thinks. She may have preferred an older version, but there’s no doubt she’s still craving the man in front of her. Beneath her. Whatever.

 

Gently, she runs her fingers through his tresses. Dark, and soft. Like his wings had been, she thinks with a nostalgic sigh.

The illusion is staring at her curiously now though, and she can’t have that. If It goes off thinking and behaving like a real person, she may never leave.

 

So instead she leans down, presses her lips against theirs while her hands explore the body. It’s smaller than the last. Less fed, and less well cared for. She’ll have to try and help with that. She grimaces when her fingers drift over his rib cage and she can actually feel the bones underneath.

She is taking the real Dirthamen to a buffet tomorrow, she decides. And perhaps she should start packing him food to take to work with him, moving forward.

But for now, there are other matters to concern herself with. And the wisp below her will have to do for what she needs.

 

Her lips trace over his jawline, following a path all too familiar to her. He sighs, and writhes, and moans in all the same places. He still gasps when she nips at the soft skin behind his ears, and his hips still twitch when she rolls against them.

With a quick burst of her magic, his boxers turn to ash and fall cleanly away, leaving only flesh on flesh. Or the closest thing to it in the fade, she supposes. He groans, arching towards her heat and she grins as she shifts herself up just enough to deny him any real friction.

“Maybe later,” she whispers into his ear.

She plucks at one of his nipples and he cries out “Selene, please-!”

 

She freezes. Stares down at him again.

 

Des always ensures that he and the illusions call her Sulvuna when they play these games. He knows that she isn’t comfortable having Dirthamens face call her Selene when it will all be ripped away from her come daylight. Knows that she needs that separation to keep herself grounded. To keep her dreams separate from her days.

 

“What did you call me?” she stutters.

The illusion beneath her turns a deep red, looking entirely confused.

“Your…form,” he offers. “It is reminiscent of a woman I know.”

 

Oh. Oh no.

 

**Oh no.**

 

This is  _actually_  Dirthamen, she realizes with dawning horror. And he thinks she is  _actually_ a Desire Demon,come to tempt him. Thinks this is his dream, and she just happened to take the form of someone he- Well, she supposes that  _is_  useful, all things considered, if he thinks it is a general Desire Demon  _disguised_  as Selene, rather than Actually-Selene in what has become her form with features that belong to a Desire Demon.

 

_Now_  what is she supposed to do? Des would finish out the scenario, absolutely. Of course he would, with the amount of desire and want and carnal need pouring out of Actually-Dirthamen. He’s probably nearby already, watching and feeding off of the two of them. But Selene isn’t a demon, and Dirthamen doesn’t know that she isn’t a spirit.

He doesn’t know what he’s consenting to, she realizes with a sick twisting feeling in her gut. She all but jumps off of him, feeling awful, and terrible, and  _wrong_. She wraps her arms around herself, claws digging into her arms as she stammers out an apology and forces herself awake.

 

She bolts upright in bed, and immediately heads into a very cold, very sobering shower.

 

’ _What did you_ _ **do**_ _?_ ’ she accuses, hands propped up against the tile while she lets the water pour over the back of her head and down her face.

_'Very little, in truth. You both wanted the same thing, and so I simply ensured you could both achieve your goals.’_

_'If he discovers us-’_

_'He will do absolutely nothing but nod in understanding and continue on with his life. No version of him is anymore capable of killing you, than you are of killing him.’_

Selene growls, lathering the shampoo into her hair  _'You don’t know that. We barely know him, or his motivations, now.’_

_'Yes, clearly the two of you have zero interest in each other. I could tell by how you so clearly weren’t into it, and how much he resisted.’_ Des drawls sarcastically.  _'Honestly, if you had been an_ _ **actual**_ _Desire Demon, you could be possessing him right now.’_

 

She stands under the running water for a few moments while the last of the shampoo runs out of her hair.

 

_'We can’t just pick up where we left off,’_  she points out.  _'He doesn’t remember us. I can’t exactly crawl into bed with him and say “oh it’s fine, we were married in your last life”.’_

_'I think you’re underestimating our sex appeal.’_

_’_ _**Des.** _ _’_

_’_ _**Fine** _ _. But if you think I’m going to sit back and watch some dragged out will-they won’t-they story with the two of you again, you are sadly mistaken. He is_ _**ours** _ _. I want him back.’_

_'He has a right to live his life however he chooses. He’s not actually required to keep us around.’_

_'I didn’t claim that he was. But he_ _**does** _ _want us, and for some reason that’s always the piece of the puzzle you seem to ignore.’_

 

Selene goes silent, no longer responding to Des’s provocations as she finishes her shower. Once she dries, she pulls on her robe, pale, soft, and still fluffy from how little use it’s seen, and silently makes her way down the stairs and into the kitchen. She is mixing herself a martini when she hears the soft padding of feet on the stairs behind her.

 

“Trouble sleeping?” she asks without turning around.

“…Yes.” he allows.

She hums in place of a response, and after a moment he pulls a second martini glass down from the cherry-wood cabinet and places it beside her own.

 

Selene raises an eyebrow skeptically “Are you even old enough to drink?” she teases. Although in truth, she’s not actually  _sure._

“I am.”

 

Well. That’s something, at least.

 

She strains the gin and vermouth over the two glasses and runs a wedge of lemon over each rim. His eyes never seem to leave her hands, and she wonders if he’s feeling as awkward as she is.

 

After handing him his cup, she tilts hers slightly towards him with a quiet 'cheers’. He inclines his own back, and they each take a sip.

 

Dirthamen coughs, and she tries not to laugh.

 

“My gin has a bit of a burn to it,” she apologizes, though she can barely feel it anymore. “Would you like an olive? Or some water?”

“No, this is fine,” he manages with only a slight rasp.

 

She shrugs and takes another sip, contemplating whether it is too late at night to call Uthvir for advice. Fear would probably have a slightly more level view of this whole scenario. It might even be worth the inevitable teasing as they hold it over her head for the next few decades.

Tomorrow, she decides. Selene finishes her martini more quickly than she probably should have in polite company, and watches as Dirthamen inspects his own drink like it is a test of some kind.

 

She sighs, and takes it from his hands. Her pulse jumps when their fingers brush, and she can tell his own thoughts take an abrupt turn at the contact, but she just places the cup back down on the counter.

“If you don’t like it, you don’t have to finish it. I won’t be insulted, really.”

 

He still seems skeptical, but relents and leans back against he counter-top. Something in Selene aches at the sight. It reminds her of late nights in the kitchen, when the rest of the frat was out, or the twins were sleeping. Stories and secrets and private moments shared in the dim light before the sun rose. Innocent kisses and less innocent touches. Moments that were always just theirs.

 

He doesn’t remember any of them, she reminds herself before she can get too swept up in the nostalgia. He doesn’t remember anything.

 

“Your opinion matters, you know,” she begins, more to distract herself than him. “If you don’t like something, it’s alright to say so. Otherwise, I’ll never know, and you’ll be stuck drinking things that make your face scrunch up for the rest of your life,” she teases.

 

He is silent for only a moment before breaking out into a small smile “In that case, I feel I should inform you that I do not like your quiche.”

 

Selene fakes a dramatic swoon “Oh dear me-oh-my, whatever shall I do? This charming young man doesn’t like my quiche! My life is a waste, I shall have to move into a cave somewhere and live in solitude for the rest of my days! Perhaps I could start up a collection of nugs to keep me company in my cold, dark home.”

“Are cats not the traditional pets for people your age who choose to live alone?”

Selene thwaps his arm lightly and playfully “Be nice to your elders. We’re old, and feeble,” she jokes. “Besides, cats are too cliche.”

Dirthamen shakes his head, but he is still smiling “You are neither old, nor feeble. I have seen you carry things far heavier than most people can lift on a good day, with ease.”

“Want me to carry you sometime then?” she slips.

He turns just slightly red before answering. “I think that would certainly be an…interesting experience.”

 

Selene swallows. She remembers precisely how much he had enjoyed her strength in the past. If the thoughts she’s picking up from him now are any indication, that aspect of him certainly hasn’t changed.

 

“Yes. Well.” she coughs, trying to seem casual again, and suddenly feeling very, very naked in just her robe. “Maybe later,” she allows, before heading back up the stairs.

 

When she turns at the top, he is still standing in the kitchen, staring at her like she is a puzzle he is desperately trying to solve. She bids him good night, and vanishes back into her room.

Sleep doesn’t come back for her.


	5. Dirthamen Figures Some Stuff Out

Dirthamen is not a stranger to the kinds of dreams that are notorious for plaguing mages.

But he does not usually have erotic dreams.

Particularly not so… frequently.

It is, he thinks, very probable that he is infatuated with his… landlady? Rescuer? Housemate? He is not certain what terms to apply to Selene. It is not a standard relationship, he supposes; being escorted away from his park bench by one mysterious stranger, and then taken in by the apparent good-nature of another. He does not know what to make of it, particularly as days turn to weeks, and it becomes more and more likely that Selene is not hiding some ill-intent. He is not pressed for money, or labour, or even sex.

Selene herself is very beautiful. Beautiful enough to make Dirthamen wonder at her lack of partners. She is not  _typical,_  perhaps. But she is sharp and striking and strong, and there is a quality to her that sometimes leaves him breathless; that sometimes makes him have to turn away, awkward, wondering at the rising heat in himself.

He supposes this is attraction, then?

But not one easily pursued.

She mentions his age enough for it to seem egregious. Dirthamen wonders how old she is. It is hard to gauge, in a way, even accounting for the predilection of some elves to age rather ambiguously in the middle of their life. He does not think she could be much older than thirty, though. Ten years his senior, perhaps? A significant gap, but not insurmountable.

That is his first assumption, anyway.

By the time he trusts his benefactor enough to check on his brother, to offer him warnings of the compromised nature of his scheme, he has become more or less resigned to the possibility of a one-sided infatuation, however. Falon’Din has always professed more skill with interpersonal relationships. But Dirthamen has no opportunity, or even much inclination, to ask him for advice. His brother is furious with his failure to maintain full secrecy.

“This is my future,” he reminds Dirthamen. “I’m the only one of us with a genuine shot at one of those. You just had  _one_  thing to do. Here I was hoping you were alright, worrying about you, and you just threw me under the fucking bus the first chance you got, didn’t you?”

“No,” Dirthamen insists. “They already knew. I do not know how they found out.”

“Because you fucked up, obviously!” Falon’Din shouts. He is very upset. Dirthamen cannot refute that he was probably the one to make a mistake somewhere. Given that he made all of the arrangements, that seems likely.

“I will do my best to keep you safe,” he promises, just the same.

Falon’Din lets out a long breath.

“If they give you any money…” he begins, but then the connection to the call cuts. He tries to phone again, but it seems the network is down. Selene suggests that unpredictable Rivaini weather patterns may be to blame, and then reminds him that he needs to get ready for work, if he wishes to leave on time.

His job is tiring, simple work, that is not mentally stimulating. He is grateful for the addition of games to their routine. Selene is very good at them, particularly any of the ones requiring numbers or quick calculations, and often beats him. The return of routine, of stable patterns and predictable days, to his life, is also a great boon. Even if things are very different, they are different in a way he can adjust to. Wake up. Have breakfast. Clean the dishes. Go to work, if it is his shift. Work nights at the end of the week. Pay his rent, keep the house clean, play games with Selene when she gets home.

He memorizes the rooms of the house, keeps track as much as he can of how much he eats, how much the electrical and air-conditioning bills would be. He knows he pays far less rent than he should, even so, but he still devotes as much of his paycheck as he can to it. The rest he keeps aside for an emergency. In case he still needs to run, or if his brother needs help. Selene’s books had proven sufficient enough entertainment and intellectual stimulation, that he had reasoned away needing any sort of entertainment fund. And then she had purchased the games, of course.

Dirthamen knows he has little hope of repaying her for them. What he does not know is how someone of her quality has become lonely enough to wish to spend her evenings with  _him._

He ignores the class brochures and university fliers she brings home. He has no hope of affording any of that, not yet, at least.

And with the dreams… well. It had seemed he was being impertinent enough anyway.

The first one is vague enough that he doesn’t consider it too noteworthy. Just kisses, touches. No particular face or voice or scene associated with them. Impressions of sensations that follow him until he wakes with his erection straining against the front of his boxers.

But gradually, the dreams get more and more explicit. More and more defined. Selene brushes her fingers across his forearm as she checks his cast, and he shivers, and dreams of her hands on him. She leans over in the process of claiming a game piece from the board on the table, and her hair brushes his shoulder, and he dreams of it pressing against his cheek as she climbs into his lap. One evening she opens the door to his room, and he stills in surprise, his hand freezing around himself as he hopes the room is dark enough to disguise his activities.

“Sorry,” she says. “Just checking the locks. I forgot you were in here.”

She closes the door and is gone again, and he is not sure if her awkwardness was because she noticed what he was doing or not. He is addled enough that he does not even think to notice her strange excuse.

And then one night he falls asleep, and a Desire demon comes in Selene’s shape.

Dirthamen knows he should banish it.

But for some reason he cannot quite muster up the will to, as ‘Selene’ slinks closer. Tail lashing back and forth, horns stretching up her head as she straddles him, and the dream settles into a vivid scenario that is… perhaps unsurprising. Given the Desire demon. Such creatures can know a person’s wants as well as they themselves do, but even so,  _this_  Desire demon seems to know far more about Dirthamen’s body than he does. By far.

He had no idea his ears were erogenous zones.

_Maybe it will not be **so**  dangerous,_ he thinks. So long as he does not agree to anything, then… there is probably no harm in indulging…?

Except that Selene does not know. Selene does not know that there is a demon wearing her face, touching him, and that is probably a violation of  _some_  kind. If the situation were reversed… well, that is perhaps a poor example. What is the legal precedent for these sorts o..f…

Selene finishes disrobing him, playfully denying him the contact he seeks, and Dirthamen gasps and  _pleads_  and suddenly realizes that he may, in fact, be much too carried away.

But it is the demon who stops.

“What did you call me?” it asks. Selene’s expression is alarmed.

Does it not know its own shape? Dirthamen feels a flush of shame, and confusion. Humiliation, as the awareness of how badly he has handled this situation collides with his persistent arousal, and the sudden refocusing of his attention.

“Your…form,” he offers. “It is reminiscent of a woman I know.”

The demon’s eyes are wide, as it abruptly wraps its arms around itself. Withdrawing so aggressively that the dream shatters, and Dirthamen is left to gasp awake in bed. His penis erect and aching, his mind jarred and a little disoriented, lost for half a moment in the impressions of touch and the thoughts of pleasure and denial, sickening realization and a creeping sense of vulnerability, that has him curling into his blankets for a moment as his heart pounds against his ribcage.  _Selene,_  he thinks, and the thought is odd because it seems to carry so much more than he can articulate. A perception that sinks in between dreaming and waking, and makes him feel like he just managed to miss every step on a darkened staircase.

His pulse is still thundering when he hears the shower turn on.

The real Selene is awake, then.

Dirthamen draws in a long breath, and lets it out again, and is not certain if that is a relief or not. Though it  _is_  strangely reassuring, as he listens to the sounds of water running through the pipes. His arousal is persistent, but he does not think he can bring himself to do anything about it at the moment. So he lies where he is, instead, waiting it out, until finally he hears the water stop. And after a brief moment, there is the sound of footsteps, heading down the stairs.

Perhaps something is amiss, he thinks.

Perhaps he should check.

He swallows, and sits up. Pulling on his thickest pyjama pants, and then heading into the quiet hall, and down the stairs himself.

Selene is wearing a soft, fluffy robe.

Dirthamen pauses, and tries not to stare at the bare skin of her calves. She has very long, very nice legs, and the robe is just a little too short on her.

“Trouble sleeping?” she asks, without turning around. Focused on mixing a drink, it seems. An alcoholic drink.

Dirthamen doesn’t deny it, as he makes his way into the kitchen. He watches as Selene pours them both martinis. Staring at her hands. At first because it is more appropriate than staring at the low dip of the front of her robe, but then because he notices something peculiar.

Her nails.

Were her nails purple this evening?

He recalls watching her shuffle a deck full of Magic: The Gathering cards several hours ago, and feels confident that they were not. And she has just taken a shower. Did she… paint her nails after? Would they not still be wet? Or did she paint her nails and  _then_  shower?

He almost asks. But then she finishes preparing their drinks, and it strikes him that it might be inappropriate. Especially since part of the reason for his fixation is tied to recollections of similarly-coloured nails trailing down his chest, as a demon with Selene’s face seemed to tut over the state of his ribcage.

He drinks his martini instead.

And then nearly coughs it back up again.

Selene is good natured about it, at least. Dirthamen hopes that she does not guess that it is the first time he has tasted alcohol. He tries to finish the concoction, but he does not resist when it is taken from him, either. Selene also takes a moment to reaffirm that he is allowed to set boundaries. He feels a pressing mixture of comfort and guilt at her assurances. Considering how many he has managed to cross in his recent dream… perhaps he should apologize for it. Or perhaps even bringing it up would be more inappropriate?

He sets it aside, anyway. Opting instead to trade lighter comments about quiche, and age, and strength.

Something strikes him about it all, though, as Selene says goodnight for the second time that evening.

He stays in the kitchen awhile longer, and puzzles it over. How old  _is_  Selene? It is rude to ask, he knows. But she had not reacted poorly to the teasing – on the contrary – and Dirthamen wonders… is that normal? Many of his instructors at the institute had taken deep offense to any questions or commentary on their ages. And Selene  _is_  strong. Which is not so unusual for a fit person, but even so… even so…

Why did the demon withdraw?

Why did it withdraw so suddenly, so thoroughly? Dirthamen was falling right into its trap.

He wonders… purple nails…

But the kitchen does not offer any answers. Dirthamen checks the time, and then at last decides to try and get a few more hours of sleep before he needs to go to work. His skin is still tingling, and he pauses by Selene’s door, and hears the sound of pages turning. Reading, perhaps. Insomnia is not a suspicious thing, he knows, and he has no reason to interrupt her. He returns to his room, and to his bed, but only ends up mulling over his puzzling thoughts and internal contradictions rather than sleeping.

The next day proves a tiring work day.

But when he gets back to the house, Selene is there. Wearing faded jeans and a soft sweater, and a sincere smile, as she asks if he’d be willing to go out to dinner with her. For a ‘change of pace’.

He agrees, and goes and gets some money from his emergency stash underneath his mattress.

What kind of establishment will they be going to? He pauses, uncertain. Selene had been wearing jeans, though. He errs on the side of caution, but is definitely relieved when they arrive at the restaurant and it proves to be a simple Marcher-style buffet. The food is good and plentiful. Selene waves him off when he offers to pay for both of their meals, insisting that it is her treat, and he feels another twinge of guilt. She has been so good to him, and he has let demons seduce him with her face. Her form.

They sit down, managing to secure a booth that is just slightly apart from the main din of restaurant activity. Dirthamen’s plate is heavy with fries and wings and salad, Selene’s own stacked similarly, and with things he suspects she keeps sneaking onto his when he is not looking. At least, he does not recall acquiring a fruit cup or cookies at any point in the buffet line.

But they taste good.

Selene talks to him a little about current events. She mentions a friend of hers who apparently offers acting classes, and then asks Dirthamen if he has any interest in the performance arts. He shakes his head, contemplating the sickening sensation of lights shining directly on him, and an audience sitting in rows, judging his every move. The Institute had put on plays for charity drives, every so often. A practice that had mercifully ended before Dirthamen’s teen years. Auditioning had been mandatory, but he had been viscerally relieved when Falon’Din had been deemed the better performer, by far.

Still, the fifteen minutes he had been forced to spend standing in a tree costume behind his brother had been nauseating.

Selene does not press the point, and he is glad for that. By the time they head home they have done very little, it seems, and yet Selene appears exceedingly satisfied. Dirthamen’s stomach is full, and he is pleasantly warm from the sensation of having over-eaten just a bit. And when Selene’s arm threads through his own on the way back to the car, it seems perfectly normal, for some reason.

He smiles.

Selene freezes.

He pauses, too, then, and wonders. Was that a misstep? The smile slips off of his face, and Selene’s hand slides out of the crook of his arm.

“Sorry,” she says. “It’s cold out.”

“…I did not mind,” he offers. It is not, however, very cold at all.

Selene’s hand clenches, and she folds her arms, smiling and nodding but saying little else as they finish the trek out to the car. Dirthamen wonders over her reaction, and then wonders… if… perhaps he has given himself away. Perhaps it was written, somehow, in the curve of his smile, that he wants her touch. That he has dreamt of it. Invited violations from demons, and risked her safety and the integrity of his own person for the sake of indulging that want.

His full stomach churns, as he gets into the passenger’s side seat. The food feeling leaden and heavy, now, too much for him.

Selene starts the car.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

She startles, and glances at him.

“What for?” she asks.

He looks at her, and tries not to hunch his shoulders in. Tries not to shrink away from the potential consequences of his own failings. He has failed so much already. It has put his brother in danger, put his hands in the life of merciful strangers, who are only merciful by good fortune. It has gotten him nearly possessed.

“I had a dream,” he admits. “The sort of dream that they warn you about, when your magic manifests. I let a demon take your face and seduce me, and I know that is wholly inappropriate. Perhaps it is inappropriate to even mention it. But you have been very kind to me, and I did not wish to repay your kindness with depravity. I did not mean to… lapse, like that, and I would not want you to think me opportunistic or exploitative in return. I apologize if I betray any attractions or interest in you that are unwelcome. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Selene is silent.

Dirthamen cannot muster up the nerve to look at her. He stares at the dashboard of the car instead, for what seems like centuries. Until Selene finally clears her throat.

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” she tells him. “And you have  _nothing_  to apologize for.”

He glances at her, but she is looking at the road, then. Her face flushed, but her gaze inscrutable as they pull out of the parking lot. The drive back to the house is silent, and not comfortably so. Dirthamen wonders if he should apologize again. If he should insist upon his wrongdoings, but that seems counter-intuitive. He has offered his sincere remorse. Perhaps the awkwardness of the atmosphere is only normal, when one person admits to having dangerously erotically dreams to someone who has no similar interest in them.

By the time they get through the door, he is attempting to think of a suitable means of distracting away from the awkwardness. Perhaps a game? He pulls off his coat, and hangs it in the hall closet, as Selene steps into the sitting room. He goes to ask if she would be interested in rematch of Magic, or something else, only to find her staring rather intently at the couch.

He does not know why it is this sight that clicks into place for him.

Perhaps it is because, even though the angle he is viewing things from is different, the elements of the scene come together so perfectly that it just… frames all of the clues he has gathered in the right context, at last.

The Desire demon. Selene. Age, and strength, and strange behaviour. Purple nails.

He glances at her hands. Clear nails, as usual.

Looks down at her shadow, and sees the faintest flick of what could be a tail, and could be a trick of the light.

_Oh._

He does a quick mental reconfiguration of the situation. Given her abrupt withdrawal from their dream, perhaps she had assumed him to be a simple manifestation of the Fade, but his voice had somehow betrayed the presence of an actual separate consciousness? Rather than a constructed illusion, as one might assume. That would explain her shock, and the lack of attempts to possess him. The demon or spirit involved has already obtained a host.

Who is Selene.

His education did not include much on the subject of possessed people. It is, after all, illegal, and so most of his instructors had simply focused on that aspect of the scenario, and on avoidance policies. Much as his sexual education had consisted of an abstinence-only program, supplemented by judicious use of the internet and hearsay from his peers.

But that had still yielded enough information for him to work with, and further expand his knowledge base.

Perhaps his limited knowledge on abominations can at least give him a cautious jumping-off point.

Do they like to be called abominations? He cannot imagine that they do…

Dirthamen swallows, and approaches. Selene blinks at him, and moves a step back from the couch.

His filters are sketchy at best, sometimes. Generally all-or-nothing. He will blame that, he thinks, for the question that blurts out of him.

“Was that actually you, in my dream?” he asks.

Selene looks startled. Cornered. Dirthamen raises his hands, and takes a step back. Ducking his head, reflexively, and immediately regretting his approach.

“I am sorry,” he says, straight away. “I did not mean to alarm you. I apologize if I have said anything offensive towards possessed persons, I did not know and I have not had much education on the subject. I hope I have not offended you.”

Silence.

When he manages to look at Selene’s face again, her expression is hard to read.

“Was it tactless to ask?” he wonders.

Inscrutability softens, and something that is equally as difficult to name, but somehow much more stirring, creeps into her gaze.

“No,” she tells him, faintly. Opening and closing her mouth, again, as if she is torn between the right words to say.

Dirthamen swallows, and then nods his head in acknowledgement.

Her status is quite illegal. It occurs to him, then, that he now has something to hold over her. Something she would not be capable of retaliating against without committing to violence, and while he is certain she could kill him – and probably do away with his body with no one the wiser – he does not think she  _would_.

In fact, he feels strangely confident of this.

She has done a great deal to reassure him, since her friend pulled him off of his park bench. It would be unfair not to do the same.

“I will not tell anyone,” he promises. “Not a soul. You do not have to worry. I will swear to it. I will make a binding oath, if you require.”

He pulls out his pocket knife – a gift, from her, to help him feel safer – and draws the blade, and barely gets it to the back of his hand before she moves impressively fast and grasps him by the wrist. Stalling him.

Her skin is very warm.

“What are you doing?” she asks, aghast.

Dirthamen blinks.

“The strongest oaths require blood magic,” he explains.

“Since when are you a blood mage?” Selene demands, and he stalls. Oh. He neglected to mention that aspect of his education. Though how she phrases it, the intensity of it, is surprising. Does she object to it? Perhaps it is only stereotype that makes him think an abomination would take no issue with blood magic.

“I – it is a mandatory course for students whose grade levels exceed certain points at the Institute,” he explains, haltingly. “But I can refrain from using it, if it makes you uncomfortable. It is not a special interest of mine.”

Selene lets out a long breath through her nose, and then releases his wrist.

“Of course,” she says. “I knew that. I… forgot. I’m sorry,” she offers.

Dirthamen nods, hesitantly.

He has put her on edge, it would seem.

“You don’t have to swear any oaths,” she tells him. Then she lets out a longer breath, and runs a hand down the sound of her face. Muttering something about someone never letting her live this down, he thinks, before she seems to shake that notion off, and then turns back to him.

“It’s probably better that you know,” she allows, folding her arms. “Now things aren’t quite so lop-sided. I’m helping you, and you’re keeping my secret for me.”

Dirthamen nods, tentatively.

“Is Uthvir an abomination too?” he wonders. And then he supposes that’s probably an inappropriate question as well.

Selene’s expression goes pained.

“I can neither confirm or deny,” she says. “But do me a favour and please,  _please_  do not ask them that.”

“Would it be dangerous?” he wonders.

This summons a gusty exhalation from her, and finally she moves over to the couch, and sinks into it. Pressing one hand to her forehead.

“No,” she tells him, plainly. “Uthvir is not dangerous to you, and neither am I.”

Dirthamen nods. He has more questions now, he thinks. But not quite so many. In fact, he finds that he is oddly satisfied, all around. This solves a great number of mysteries. He wonders about the details – how old  _is_  Selene? And how old is Uthvir, whom he is roughly ninety percent certain shares her status? – but the overall picture of a bored immortal acting on one whim and then another explains a lot of things. Dirthamen supposes that if he lived forever, he might take up the task of helping wayward strangers, of finding people in need and forging companions out of them. Debt would be a potential way to help guarantee that they kept any secrets they uncovered, but might feel exploitative if too much fear or resistance was involved.

Dirthamen is not resistant to this arrangement, however.

He wonders if Selene has done this before. He wonders if it would be inappropriate to ask.

In the end, she’s the one who breaks the new silence between them.

“If you’re not comfortable with me staying here anymore, I understand,” she offers. “I can go. You’re welcome to live here for as long as you need to.”

Dirthamen blinks.

“You do not make me uncomfortable,” he offers, echoing her earlier assurance. He moves closer to where she is sitting, and peers down at her. Wondering, as he reaches tentatively towards her cheek, and brushes his fingers carefully across it. Her lips part, just a little, and her breath stills.

“Would you like to have sex?” he wonders. That seems logical, considering his new perspective on the dream. She thought it was a fantasy, was as eager to indulge in it as he was; so she finds him attractive. He finds her attractive as well. Should he say so?

“I think you are very beautiful,” he offers, as she continues to stare at him, frozen in place. “Can I kiss you? Or would you prefer to consider things mo-”

His question is cut off before he can finish it by the sudden press of lips against his own. Selene arches up, and grasps his hips, and then more or less pulls him straight into her lap. He sucks in a surprised breath that draws in her tongue, as well, as her grip moves to his backside and she squeezes, pressing against the fabric of his pants as if she wants to burn the layers away. Just as she had in the dream.

Dirthamen is not certain what to do with his own hands, and he tries to keep from leaning too much weight into her only to find Selene taking it anyway. His mouth tingles as her tongue explores it, and he ends up gripping the couch cushions behind her as her breasts press against his stomach, and her nails dig into his backside. He has to pay attention to how he is breathing, but it is difficult to keep track of as Selene’s hands wander up his shirt, and her lips devour his in hungry rounds of wanting.

When he finally manages to pull back from the kisses, he is breathless and hard and just the tiniest bit overwhelmed.

Selene swallows. And then all at once she is no longer touching him, no longer holding him. She pushes him out of her lap and onto the couch beside her, and lets out a shuddering breath. Dirthamen is not certain what to make of the prospect of being so aroused and having that so abruptly set aside, once again. For some reason the thought of being left wanting is… more arousing? Strangely stimulating, at least. But the notion that it is because of some discomfort, some misstep, is not. He blinks, and brushes some of his hair away from his face.

“Did I do something wrong?” he wonders.

Selene lets out a shuddering breath, and shakes her head.

“No, but… you do not know the  _full_  story, yet,” she says.

He waits a moment, tamping down on the urge to try and pull her to him again. His lips are still tingling, and his pants feel much, much too tight. But when the moment passes and it becomes clear that Selene does not intend to elaborate, he considers her statement.

“Do you have a sexually transmitted illness?” he wonders.

Selene glances at him, and there seems to be some glimmer of amusement – or perhaps appreciation – in her gaze, as she shakes her head.

“Abominations don’t get sick,” she assures him.

Dirthamen nods.

“Regardless, I will have to insist that we use protection for any penetrative intercourse,” he decides. “But otherwise, I do not think I need to know all of your secrets to know that I want to have sex with you.”

Selene’s hands flex.

“Please,” he adds.

Something literally flashes in her gaze, and she lets out a soft growl that does not sound entirely elven in nature. And then she  _pounces_ on him, pressing him back down against the couch. An imitation of their dream, as her lips find his again, and she grinds down against him in a way that makes the restriction of his pants absolutely unbearable. The couch creaks, and he gasps as something ignites in the corner of his vision. The flames go out as swiftly as they kicked up, however, and he almost forgets them a moment later as Selene moves her kisses towards his left ear, and shucks a hand up underneath his shirt again.

“Condoms are upstairs,” she says, before she bites down carefully on his earlobe.

Dirthamen sucks in a breath, and then remembers that he has hands, and should probably use them. He settles them both onto her back, and then slides one down her spine. The gesture is possibly associated more with comfort than scintillation. But he likes the sigh she makes when he does it, and the way she rests more of her weight against him.

“Perhaps we should go upstairs, then?” he suggests.

“Hm. In a little while,” she agrees, before popping open the button of his fly. Giving him just enough relief from the pressure to alleviate his discomfort, but no skin-to-skin contact, as she grinds against him again.  _Maye later,_  she had said, in the dream. Dirthamen slips his own hands up underneath her sweater, and then draws them across her back again. Exploring the soft, warm expanse of her skin, and eliciting another sigh.

Right before Selene props herself up and moves away, just enough to start insistently tugging his shirt off of him. He starts helping when he hears a stitch rip, but they manage to get the garment up over his head without much visible damage, and Selene tears her own sweater and bra off almost negligently before plastering herself to his chest again. Dirthamen’s eyes widen and his breath hitches as the sensation of so much bare skin against his own. It is much more visceral than in the dream. Selene’s cheekbones are sharp, and her arms are strong, and her lips and breasts are very soft where they press up against him. Her thighs close around one of his own, and she rocks against his leg rather than grinding down on his crotch again.

Taking her pleasure, he supposes, as she presses firmly against him through the fabric of their pants. It is a heady notion, and one that pulls a sound from him as his arousal surges again at the thought. Oh, yes, he wants her to be swept up, to be pleased. He reaches for her fly, and manages to get it open. Slipping his touch carefully, tentatively, inside the soft fabric of her panties. He doesn’t venture towards the obvious target – it’s still crushed against his leg, anyway – but he brushes his hand over her hip, and towards her backside, and she seems to appreciate the contact.

She seems to appreciate a  _lot_  of contact, in fact. Even as Dirthamen marvels over the unfamiliar sensation of so much skin against his own, Selene can’t seem to get enough of it. Her fingers entwine with his free hand, and her chest presses against his chest. Her lips kiss any patch of skin they can reach, and when Dirthamen tries to return these gestures, the sounds she makes are almost achingly relieved.

Perhaps… it has been a long time, since she was touched like this?

And Dirthamen has never been touched like this.

But he can see where someone might come to miss it.

Still, he feels a little lost at sea. There is so much to touch, so many movements to keep track of. He is certain that Selene knows what she is doing, at least, but he feels also as if he has just been swept up in a dance with moves he does not know. And he is uncertain if his partner expects him to intuit them.

“Selene,” he says, cautiously. “I am… I have not done this much before.” And it was certainly never like this, when he did. This is no uncomfortable fumbling, no hissed breaths warning against an inspection finding them. No demands for secrecy, no cold hands reaching under rough blankets.

Selene’s movements halt. She leans up, and looks at him. Looks at him like she is properly seeing him again, for the first time. One of her hands brushes his cheek, and her gaze is soft as she leans in, and kisses him with aching gentleness.

“Of course,” she says. “Anything you don’t like, you just say. Anytime you want to stop, we stop.”

Dirthamen swallows. He does not want to stop, but he almost wants to ask to. Just to test it. He wonders if asking to stop now would mean they never picked up such activities again.

He is not sure if his uncertainty is showing, but Selene pulls back, then. Passion giving way to something warmer, something a little less overwhelming, as she takes his hand and leads him upstairs. He swallows, and wonders if he should mention that he has never had penetrative sex  _at all._  Is that the sort of thing that should be disclaimed? But Selene does not sweep him off towards the bed, does not even sweep him up into her arms. She kisses him softly, and hums, and sighs when he puts his arms around her. Touching him in sweet caresses by her bedroom doorway, until he almost forgets what they are even doing.

At some point he steps out of his pants, without much thought for it. He is much more aware of pushing ineffectively down at Selene’s, until she laughs. She threads her fingers in his hair, and does an odd little shimmying move, and they drop away from her hips and onto the floor. Her gaze stays fixed on him, though, lost in disarming affection as she brushes her nails gently over his scalp, and then coaxes him in for another kiss.

Dirthamen’s heart skips a beat.

And then it speeds up, as she pulls him towards the bed.

“We’re not doing anything tonight,” she whispers.

For some reason, he’s not entirely certain that she’s talking to him. But he answers her anyway.

“We seem to be doing quite a bit,” he feels compelled to point out. “Dinner, and then revelations, and then kissing and undressing…”

Selene grins, her gaze lighting up. She pulls him into her bed without saying much at first, though. Determined, as if she very much wants him there. The sheets are cool against his flushed skin, and the pillows are soft, and smell faintly of the same scent that clings to her hair. She wraps herself around him, and they kiss some more. Pleasantly. Warm and arousing, but without quite veering back towards the initial intensity of the couch. Selene’s lips move to his ear, as her fingers thread with his own again.

“I want you to think some more about this, please,” she tells him. “I’m going to bring you some books to read, about abominations, specifically. Before we go any further. And if you have any questions, I want you to ask them. But tonight… tonight, I would like to sleep with you. Just sleep. If that’s alright?”

Dirthamen is really, very aroused.

But he supposes that if they have stopped, then they have stopped. He has slept in dormitories for much of his life. Shared his bed a few times, though, Falon’Din always assured him he was a terrible sleeping companion, and a trial to endure. But if this is her request…

“I apologize in advance if I snore,” he offers.

Selene sighs, and wraps herself around him.

“I apologize in advance if I cling,” she returns.

That should not be too perilous, Dirthamen thinks. Though, as she shifts and her breasts press against him again, he suspects it may be very distracting.

Well.

There are far worse distractions.


	6. Des

Des has always been more patient than his brethren.

He had been born in a city long ago, crawling with wants and dreams and unsavory desires. Watched as people wished for sex, and violence. Vengeance, and power.

Food, and shelter.

 

He remembers gorging himself on snacks when he was young. Fleeting desires, lost as quickly as they had arrived. He hated snacks.

Des wanted  _substance_.

 

He remembers the gleam of a young elven girl with a polished stone in her pocket. Small and soft and full of hopes. Potential.

And magic.

So  _much_  magic, roiling inside of such a quiet thing. It’s all knotted up inside of her, like she’s been trying to force herself to fit a mold she wasn’t made for, and is ready to burst at the seams.

He could help with that.

 

He follows her. Watches her trick some other merchant into giving more than they had wanted to for her product.  _Their_  product, he supposes, eyeing the man standing next to her.

He reeks of his own unsavory desires.

She notices, at least. Tries to force herself to want it. Des tsks in disapproval.

Mortals are so foolish.

 

He finds her later that night, in the fade. Wrapped up within herself and trying to fend off an illusion in the shape of the man from earlier. It has too many hands, and will not stop reaching for her. Des doesn’t need to see how that plays out to know what it means.

He waves it away, steps into place where the illusion had been. Twists his appearance to something else. Shorter and more lanky than the other man had been. Not his usual taste, but suitable to make his approach a bit smoother.

 

She seems shocked when the barrage stops. Looks up at him with wet, wary eyes.

Des smiles and holds out a hand for her.

 

When she takes it, he is assaulted with so many conflicting desires it makes everything a bit fuzzy around the edges. A sensation of floating, reminiscent of the mortals in their alleys with needles and razor-blades, desperate to achieve this euphoria. He sees flashes of her life, her loneliness. She wants companionship, and freedom, and knowledge. He feels the surge of her repressed power, the flames flaring up against his own.

It is  _marvelous_.

 

She will make a wonderful meal.

–

The few centuries after Dirthamen’s death had been…tricky.

The extended time with Sulvuna had been fantastic, and more than satisfactory. Her own desires rising and falling in his arms. So much stronger now that they had merged, though that could be because his own essence is so tied into her own now.

He does not feel like he used to.

He knows he has changed, that Sulvuna and their time together has changed him. But he likes his name, his identity. Fear and a few others have mentioned concerns over his fluctuations.

But Fear is a coward, more concerned with whether the moon will fall out of the sky if they should indulge in a bit of happiness than in actually  _achieving_  happiness. If you will be dead either way, why deny yourself?

What a waste.

 

He watches over the years as she tries to recapture that happiness elsewhere. A few dinner dates that end before they so much as kiss goodnight.

Des thinks he would have been upset about that once. That her bed and home have been empty for so long. That she is isolating herself.

But he understands, and that worries him. Other people are simply not the same. They are not  _theirs_.  
So they summon illusions and change their forms and feed on each other and pretend not to see the hole beneath their feet when they stand on the edge.

There are many nights where Sulvuna doesn’t want to wake up.

There are others when he looks at her and sees only himself.

She is going to fall, and he will go tumbling down with her.

 

And then  _Fear_ , of all people, finds him.

What an ass.

 

But it is such a relief surging through them to see him alive, beneath the visceral reaction and the self-flagellation that he is injured. Des wants to take him, claim him, he is there, he is  _theirs, and they want him back._

 

Sulvuna, in probably the most true-to-herself form she has shown in years, tells him No.

Patience.

 

Des can do patience.

 

But as the weeks pass and he sees the desires rising in him again, his patience wears thin. It had taken them so  _long_  to admit anything to each other before. And Sulvuna is lecturing about  _age_ , and  _choice_ , and even s _ending him off to college_  which means years apart, and  **no**.

They have waited long enough.

Des gives them a push.

 

Despite her lectures and her anger at his actions, Des is more than smug as their arms wrap around Dirthamen’s frame, finally back in their bed where he belongs.

Sex would have been nice, but this is an acceptable compromise, he thinks. Flesh pressed to flesh, and Dirthamen’s scent in their nostrils.

 

There are soft, lazy kisses in the morning in between more questions. Dirthamen’s curiosity is the same as ever, it seems. He asks about age, and their past, and Sulvuna still holds back on telling him about this whole ‘reincarnation’ issue. She does mention being married in the past, at least. Des supposes that will have to be enough, while he trails their nails over his bare legs and back. Enjoys the feel of his blood beneath the skin.

Des disapproves of the blood magic. It makes him feel farther away, which is ridiculous because he is  _right here_ , where he is  _supposed_  to be. But it feels harder to reach him, still. Like a few of their strings have been cut.

 

He rides high on Sulvuna through the day, trying to press through. Of course they have  _books_  on their…person-hood, but really, first hand experience is so much more useful,  _and_  valuable. If she would simply allow him to speak to Dirthamen, he would be more than happy to answer any and all questions he may have.

 

But Sulvuna shoots him down. Again.

He pouts.

 

But he can touch Dirthamen again, and he does, oh, he does. They barely make it off the couch. No heat to their actions at Sulvunas insistence, but there is plenty of kissing, and nuzzling, and sighs and Des wonders for a bit if perhaps he could just relieve the situation a  _bit,_  just a few strokes or licks at the right time-

Sulvuna gets off of the couch in a huff. Which is ridiculous, because Dirthamen  _wants_  it,  _really,_  but she is so strange about space, and he doesn’t need the headache of her vying for complete control again.

 

She calls Fear. Explains the situation. They panic, because of  _course_ they do. But they’re hiding something, too. Just the tiniest bit of relief behind their scolding.

Curious.

 

They set a date to return the car, and Des wonders at Fears strange sense of surrender to their circumstances. He thought for sure they would have immediately hung up, changed their number, and perhaps even fled the country for a while. Or had a bit more snark to the situation? They did not even insult him.

Something has changed.

Des wants to know  _what_.

But for now, they have what they wanted for so long. And he does not intend to let it go again.


	7. Angsty Teen Ana

Ana  _has_  a mom, and a dad, and she has an uncle. They’re… somewhere. Not with her. Her parents just went and dropped her off at an orphanage for whatever reason and she’d been there since. Like, she doesn’t even have any broken lockets or whatever to help track them down. Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen? Like in the movies?

Well, like in the movies, Ana gets adopted by a rich lady. She’s not the only red head to get adopted by someone wealthy.

Great. So she’s free. Now what?

“Is this some kind of publicity stunt?” Ana asks the woman. Selene, she remembers her name was. Well,  _Selene_  just raises a brow at her in question.

“What do you mean?” She asks and Ana sighs.

“Like, to improve your public image. It happens all the time. You have no idea how little kids get picked up by some clod with too much money to throw around for their own good only for the press to pick up pictures of them kissing dirty orphaned _knife ears_ so people will think they’re some… nicer clod than they actually are. Fact is, they’re not.” Elanna shoves her hands in the pockets of her worn leather jacket and rocks back on the her heels, reveling a little at Selene’s stunned look.

Selene blinks a few times.

“No, I’m… well, I just wanted to bring you into my family,” she says. Ana raises a brow.

“So, what. Do you want me to call you  _mom_  now, or something?  _Mamae_?” She asks. Selene sighs. Ana can see the way she knits her brows together at that, and she will admit to feeling bad about giving her a hard time. The woman just did her a favor by getting her out of the absolute nightmare the orphanage is.

“You don’t have to,” she says.

“Okay,” Ana says. “Now what?”

~

Elanna doesn’t have a lot of clothes, or any personal artifacts of any kind. No locket with any hidden secrets, remember? Any clothes she does have are worn and faded, some even have holes in them. Selene is adamant on buying her new stuff. So when she schedules them a shopping trip for them at the mall, Ana is unsure what to do. The place is huge, and she has never seen so many  _things_ in one place before.

So many.

“You’re always wearing that jacket,” Selene observes. Oh so observant as always Selene, Ana thinks.

“Uh huh.”

“Would you like a new one?”

Ana shrugs.

“I guess.”

They look trough racks and racks of jackets. They’re cool, but Ana thinks hers is still cooler, so they leave the shop without buying any of them.

“Where did you get it?” Selene asks.

“Oh, it was Papae’s,” Ana easily says and… oh now she feels bad again because Selene’s brows are knitted together and she looks kinda sad.

Ana rolls her eyes.

“Okay, it’s not like  _this is the only thing I have of my lost parents so it’s super important to me,_  kind of thing. I mean, it is the only thing I have of my lost parents, but if I lost it I wouldn’t cry over it. It’s like… you know… comfy, and unless you don’t hang onto your stuff at the orphanage, you lose it. We can totally replace it, though.”

Selene nods. Good, Ana thinks. She hopes she understands.

They go though some more stores and end up buying some new t-shirts and jeans, long skirts, and other articles of clothing. Ana even gets new boots which is exciting. She likes boots. In the end they don’t replace the jacket. It’s good for a few more years, anyway.

As the car engine starts Ana looks at the stuff piled up in the back seat and cannot recall when she had ever owned this much  _stuff_. All of it hers.

“Hey,” she says before Selene can pull out of the parking space and she looks over at Ana. “Uh.. Thanks.”

Selene smiles and replies with a  _you’re welcome,_ before they drive away.

~

When Ana meets Uthvir for the first time, she thinks they have a cool look about them. She can’t put her finger on it, but she thinks they’re nice. They’ve got this big house with this big garden and a cool bird living in it.

Ana likes the bird, and the garden. It needs plants, though. Ana knows a lot about plants.

Uthvir had looked at her weird when they first met her. Like they were trying to figure something out, but couldn’t.

“Where are your parents?” They asked her when she was alone with them.

“Is the right answer in the bathroom? Because that’s where Selene went,” Ana replies.

Uthvir hums, and thankfully they don’t ask her anything more. Her parents dropped her off and vanished so it’s not like she could really answer that question anyway.

Whatever.

Selene is rich and Uthvir is rich  _and_ they have a cool bird. Lucked out, is what she did.

  
~

 

Elanna needs friends, she thinks. But school is…

Well.

None of her peers are exactly friendly with her. She mostly just ignores them, and  _definitely_ doesn’t hide in the bathroom at lunch time. It’s not like they should matter much anyway, but in her experience, telling someone off just got her into more trouble.

So she opts to just leave the scene before she does something embarrassing. Some occasions she can’t because she’s in class and there are paper balls hitting the back of her head, so she endures it.

There are times in the hallway when someone will trip her, and laugh as her books and papers fly all over the place. Even if she’s angry, she just makes sure to pick them all up and get to where she’s going because it’s not worth the trouble to get into fights here. She’d have to sit in the principal’s office and Selene or Dirthamen would have to come in and it’d just be a mess.

She could  _totally_  take on the bullies, though.

When Selene asks her if she would like to invite friends over for her birthday, Ana frowns.

“No, its not a big deal, anyway.”

“Of course it is, you’ve been with us for a year now,” Selene says. She’s making dinner in a skillet, stir fried vegetables from the looks of it. Ana shoves her hands in the pockets of her jacket.

“Okay, maybe we can order take-out and watch a movie if you want to do something so bad,” she says. “Or maybe leave me to hang out with Screecher. He’s my new best friend.”

Selene snorts, and Ana smiles.

 

~

 

Selene bought a puppy.

_A puppy!_

Ana can’t seem to take her eyes off him. He’s just so.. small and fluffy. His tail curls and it’s just so adorable she can barely leave him be. The first few days are endless play times and lots of puppy kisses, and she ends them with her cheeks sore because smiling too much hurts your face.

She’s never had a pet before.

Unless you count Reginald, the orphanage mouse who visited her room often. She left him cheese and other such treats when she could. She was surprised when Reginald turned out to be a  _she_  instead of a  _he_ because one night she saw little baby mice. She acquired more treats to accommodate them all, nonetheless.

Ein is a tiny ball of energy, never mind that he can’t see out of one eye. He’s adorable, and her toasty marshmallow friend. Who jumps up, and yaps, and nips at the hem of her skirt. She spends a lot of time taking pictures of him on her cellphone.

That’s another new thing she’s getting the hang of. Her cellphone and social media. So far she’s got a ton of pictures Ein, and only Dirthamen, Selene, and Uthvir to send them to. Dirthamen and Selene can just see the toasty marshmallow whenever they want, so she sends a picture to Uthvir.

_— HE’S SO CUTE LOOK HES SLEEPING!!!_

_— omG_

They reply.

—  _Very cute._

She smiles, and continues her new found hobby of hoarding puppy-pics.


	8. Hand Buried in Your Pants, With My Name on Your Lips

Des always gets a little louder than usual after Selene has to have a reassessment for her mage license. She can’t really blame him; he essentially gets stuffed into a box and told to stay very, very quiet for an extended period of time while people poke and prod at them.

She gets restless too.

 

So when Ana texts her to ask if she can stay late at school for club activities, Selene allows it.

Dirthamen should be home from work early today; a short morning shift, as they cut his hours for the slow season.

She slips back into the recesses of herself when she arrives at home, letting Des take the reigns in their temporary solitude. He peruses through the house, taking stock of their recently updated surroundings for their growing family. Releasing their aura, corners of the house suddenly more well lit than others. They step past Ana’s closed door and out the back, towards the freshly built greenhouse. Des takes a few pieces of elfroot, and packs them away.

 _For later,_  he insists, when Selene complains about how long the smell takes to dissipate.

 

Des hums and takes them upstairs, wheels turning in his head. He takes out one of their more comfortable lingerie pieces; a deep purple babydoll with a white lace trim that rides high on their thighs when they lay back.

They lay out, arranging themselves comfortably on the bed, and Des reaches for the phone.

 

_What are you doing_

 

 _Making sure he doesn’t miss the show_ , Des replies as the camera setting makes a quiet snap. He checks it before sending it off; their face isn’t showing, but their legs certainly are, long and spread, the satin material covering anything too obscene from view.

 

_You’re going to get him fired if he checks that at work._

 

 _Oh damn, and then he may just spend his days in our bed. What an **awful**  tragedy, _Des drawls.

 

Selene snorts, but still allows him to keep control.

 

He sighs, leaning back against their headboard, comfortably sunken into their abundance of pillows, and lets their mind wander. They think of Dirthamen’s hands; cold, but not unwelcome. A cool balm against their skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake as their own hands follow the imagined trail. Slipping down their neck, between their breasts and over the satin. His voice, whispering into their ear. Small, loving promises of devotion, quiet prayers left as offerings to the altar of their body. He still has his mind for languages, and they are thankful,  _very_  thankful when he uses them all to find the most appropriate, most accurate descriptions for what  _he_  wants. What he wishes they would do to him, what he wants to do  _to_  them,  _with_ them, and they get lost in the fantasy as their hand slips beneath the hem of their dress with a quiet sigh.

They are still lost in images of his mouth, his teeth, his hands, his magic, and don’t hear the subsequent click of their door opening. Their eyes are closed, back arched and fingers delving deep within, his name a whisper and then a scream on their lips as they fall off the edge.

 

Des grins through panted breath at Dirthamen, who is stuck frozen in the door frame, and seizes eye contact.

“Sorry,” he purrs. “I got impatient. Would you like to help with the next one?”

Dirthamen swallows, and Des revels in the energies pouring off of him as he contemplates whether he  _would_  rather participate, or sit back and watch them find their own pleasure again.

Oh, how he missed their poor conflicted lover.

 

Des takes pity, and crawls down the bed, maintaining their eye contact as Selene rises to the surface and climbs off the mattress in an attempt to alleviate some of Dirthamen’s tension.

 

“Are you alright?” She asks, taking his hand in hers.

He nods, and finally takes a step forward.

“Elanna…the high school should be letting out soon.”

“She’s staying late for a club event,” Selene hums as her fingers deftly untuck and unbutton Dirthamen’s work shirt. “We don’t need to pick her up for a few more hours.”

“Oh,” he allows, eyes following Selenes touch as his belt slides off of his hips and lands on top of his now discarded shirt on the floor. Her fingers slip through the emptied belt loops, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed before she slithers into his lap, placing soft kisses along the length of his neck.

 

“How was your day?”

“Considerably improved now, I think,” he groans, tilting his neck to allow her better access. She grins, and her teeth scrape lightly against the apple bobbing in his throat. It elicits a heady moan that she delights in feeling vibrate beneath her as his hands slip under her lingerie, pulling her close enough that their chests press together.

She rolls her hips against his lap, and his fingers claw into her back while he lets out a quiet hiss. Selene repeats the motion, burying her face against the crook of his neck and inhaling his scent.

Her magic seeps out of her, just enough to release the tension she was still carrying in her shoulders and Dirthamen shivers beneath her.

 

“Still ok?” she mumbles against his shoulder.

“Yes,” he sighs into her hair as she hears her phone start to chime.

She gently pushes on Dirthamen’s chest so that his back is against her sheets as she stands to see who could be calling.

An unsaved number.

The area code indicates they are in Rivain.

 

 _Most likely Melarue,_ Des notes.  _Just call back when you’re finished. I’m fairly certain telling Dirthamen his brother is probably dead will ruin the mood._

 

Selene hums and lets the call go to voicemail, then turns to face Dirthamen again.

Who has removed his pants.

Well. At least she isn’t the only one eager, then.

 

She smiles and crawls over top of him again, pressing her lips against his with a gentle sigh as he leans up to meet her. Arms reaching for her, down her sides, past her hips and over her thighs. Her own touch tracing down his chest until it slides beneath the band of his boxer-briefs. Her tongue slips into his mouth and he gasps at the contact, pressing eagerly against her hand. Her phone is ringing again, and she ignores it, again, giving Dirthamen several solid strokes and swallowing his moans, exploring his mouth with her tongue until he is shaking beneath her. He turns his head slightly, and she pulls back to allow him to breathe, humming lightly as she slides his underwear down and off, kissing her way back up his legs.

 

Her phone rings again.

“Who is that?” he pants.

“A telemarketer,” she lies.

He pauses, sitting up slightly. “Why would a telemarketer call you repeatedly on the same day?”

“Perhaps they are a  _persistent_  telemarketer,” she muses, biting playfully on the inside of his thigh.

His hand drifts through her hair, down the side of her face, and cups her jaw before she can reach his groin.

“Selene,” he says pointedly.

She turns her head and kisses his palm “Mm, say my name again. I like that.”

He frowns, as her phone rings again.

“Lyrium,” he announces.

 

She stops immediately and stands, ensuring they are no longer touching per their agreement about safe words and rules.

Des huffs.

 

“Who is calling you?” Dirthamen asks again.

Selene hesitates. Melarue has asked to largely be left out of her personal life, an understandable precaution. She and Des both know they’re the most likely to be caught, if anything were to go wrong. Especially with their recent, seemingly sudden adoption of Elanna.

“Someone from another life,” she settles on.

Dirthamen pauses, contemplating her words and glancing nervously at the still lit screen of her phone. “Your husband?”

Selene let out a very undignified snort “No. Definitely not. My husband died, a long while ago.”

“Oh,” Dirthamen amends, shifting awkwardly on the bed. Selene glances at her phone, mentally daring Melarue to call again.

The phone stays silent.

 

Dirthamen clears his throat “Do you need to call them back?”

“Eventually. They’ll survive waiting a bit longer.”

 

He nods and looks around the room before speaking again. “You don’t talk about your old life much.”

Selene leans back against her dresser and lets out a puff of air. “That’s true,” she evades, wondering if she could just let Des take over to avoid this conversation.

 

_Are you sure that’s what you want?_

…No. Probably not.

 

Dirthamen looks a bit ashamed now. Guilty at ending their interactions so suddenly, and at the fact that he’d still like to continue.

  
Selene scrubs her hand through her hair “It’s not like I had a bad life,” she sighs. “It was pretty great, once I got older. I had a lot of friends, and I loved my family and life was pretty wonderful, actually.”

 

“Then why don’t you want to answer your phone?”

“Because they aren’t calling to reminisce about the past.” No need to tell him that they’re calling to let her know they did her a  _favor._

Melarue will cash it in eventually, they know.

 

Dirthamen nods, and pats at the empty space beside him on the bed invitingly. Slowly, Selene makes her way back over. Keeping her hands to herself, still not sure exactly  _what_  he’s inviting. But Dirthamen takes her hand, slipping his fingers between hers. He pulls the back of her hand to his lips, pressing a warm, soft kiss to her skin, and she feels some of the tension roll out of her again.

 

He shifts, and she adjusts accordingly until he is the one over her. Lips trailing the shell of her ear, eliciting soft gasps and groans and she goes lax beneath him. Fingers trailing over the purple satin, lifting it up until her stomach is exposed. His touch drifts over the planes of her muscles, his mouth following closely behind and she sighs, closing her eyes, content to let him explore her again until he is satisfied.

“Tell me something about yourself,” he requests, lips tickling her skin.

 

“I’m an elven mage,” she mumbles, peeking one eye open, curious about his intent. His aura is still oozing desire, so she doesn’t feel  _too_ concerned yet.

He nips at her side, causing her to yelp.

“Something I don’t know,” he elaborates.

 

“Picky,” she tsks. His fingers wander up and down her legs, patiently waiting for her to acquiesce.

“I was an only child,” she settles on. Something technically personal, but not of particular importance to her. He rewards her with a gentle kiss to the top of her panties, and goes back to waiting.

“I…used to be a teacher,” she manages. He takes the tip of her underwear between his teeth and slowly rolls them down her legs. Dirthamen lets out a quiet hum as he resettles with his thigh between her legs. Selene moves to grind against it, but he uses a gently assertive touch to keep her in place, thumbs rubbing slow circles into the dip of her hips.

“I really like it when you do that,” she grins, going a bit light headed from the pleasure. He smiles back at her and leans in for a kiss, softly worrying her lower lip between his teeth before he pulls back again.

“I already knew that.”

“Mm. Then what are you looking for, Vhenan?” she sighs. He pauses, and she realizes that’s probably the first time she’s called him that in this lifetime. Normally that would worry her, but she’s beginning to think Des is helping keep everything rather calm and fluid right now.

Dirthamen presses his lips against hers again, a little sloppily but fierce, and she eagerly meets him blow for blow. He nuzzles his head into the crook of her neck, and asks “Why did you suddenly decide to become a mother?”

 

That gives Selene pause.

“You mean with Elanna?” she ventures. He rubs his thigh against her core and presses a rough kiss to her pulse point before nodding.

“I…” She takes a moment, trying to consider through the haze of lust. It hadn’t been a difficult decision at all, really. The moment she had seen Elannas name and photo in the pile of children from the Foster System, she had begun the process of adoption. Perhaps she should have had a more in depth discussion with Dirthamen about it beforehand though. Something more than ‘I’ve decided to adopt this girl, and she’ll be coming to live with us in about a month.’ It hadn’t really occurred to her, since his name wouldn’t be on the paperwork. Not enough of an age difference between them for him to legally become her father. But parenting just seemed…natural for her, she supposes.

“It’s not the first time I’ve been a mother,” she blurts out.

 

Dirthamen freezes, locking his gaze with her as his thigh stops its rhythmic movement.

“I…I did not know you had children.”

  
Selene frowns “Of course you did.”

Although…perhaps she never did bring that up, she realizes as Dirthamen just shakes his head. 

How do you explain children to their reincarnated father? 

What if they turned up again? 

She couldn’t just pretend it was a coincidence.

 

She swallows, and trails her nails down the length of his back, trying to distract him instead.

“Maybe we could make a ‘no talking about kids in the bedroom’ rule?” she jokes.

“I believe most people discuss children in the bedroom. Simply not in this context,” he notes.

“No, people discuss baby _making_  in the bedroom,” she teases. Or tries to. But there’s a glint in Dirthamen’s eyes now, something glimmering in his aura that gives her and Des pause.

“Dirthamen…” she ventures, propping herself up on her elbows. “Is there something on  _your_  mind?”

 

His eyes narrow slightly, and he leans in for another kiss, but Selene pulls her head back and gives him a knowing look.

“You are a good mother. I love you, very much. I have simply been thinking that perhaps….that is an experience we could share. Together.”

 

Selene isn’t sure if she feels elated or nauseous. Dirthamen, the Dirthamen she knew before, didn’t want children that were a part of his genetic line. He didn’t want them to be tied to that history. But perhaps, now that his family is no longer such a burden to him…But he can’t really be talking about getting her pregnant  _now._    
Selene’s nausea is starting to win out.

Des rises to help her out.

“Elanna is still getting settled. Our family is already a bit off balance while we all readjust, and I know you’re tired of us telling you this, but you  _are_ still young. And we have only been together for about a year and a half.”

Dirthamen’s shoulders slump just slightly, as he moves to get off of them, but they hold him in place. “This isn’t a  _No,”_ they insist. “But I think this is the wrong time for it. Give it a few years. We don’t want Elanna to feel like she’s being replaced, or that she was a place holder or anything ridiculous like that. We want her to feel at home, we want this to be a family. Let’s just focus on that first. And then, in a few years, we can revisit this conversation if you are still interested.”

Dirthamen takes a few minutes to consider, while Selene waits with her heart in her stomach, worried that a 'maybe, one day’ won’t be enough for him.

But he nods and acknowledges that that would be a wiser course of action, and the tension falls out of the room again. Selene slumps backwards onto the bed with a quiet thump.

 

“…Do we still have time before Elanna finishes her club activities?” Dirthamen asks with a slight quirk of his eyebrow.

Selenes eyes dart to the clock on the wall and she nods “We should still have an hour or so, yeah.”

Dirthamen nods again, hands slipping underneath her legs, past the back of her knees and prop open her thighs as he settles between them. His nose brushes against the warmth of her core, and Selene hears him mumble a quiet “Good,” before his tongue slips between her folds, and her mind goes hazy.


	9. Baby Thoughts

“You need to talk to her,” Ana glares at Dirthamen when he finally enters the living room.

Well.

Mumbles, might be more apt.

 

Dirthamen stares at the pile of blankets, most of which he suspects are newly purchased, and the Ana wrapped up tightly within their center. He can just make out her eyes, a splash of red hair peeking through the sides, and a smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose.

Dirthamen opens his mouth to respond, but Selene bursts into the room with a tray of hot chocolate and a bowl filled with marshmallows.

 

“Ok! I’ve got the cocoa and-Oh, Dirthamen. Welcome home,” she smiles.

 

“Selene,” he nods, before gesturing to Ana “Is there a reason you’ve turned Ana into a living burrito?”

 

“She’s not-” Selene turns to look at Ana and her nose crinkles slightly “…She’s fine.”

 

Dirthamen raises a skeptical eyebrow, and looks to Ana while mouthing ‘what did you do’.

 

Ana huffs, and one of the blankets shifts off of her shoulder. Selene quickly moves to fix it, tucking its edges underneath another.

“I said I was cold.” Ana answers plainly.

 

Dirthamen looks back at Selene, who is laying out the mugs on the table.

“Do you perhaps think this may be over doing it?”

 

“Nope,” Selene responds, popping the P.

 

Ana looks over at Dirthamen pleadingly, and he lets out a sigh.

 

“Selene,” he attempts, moving behind her and slipping his arms around her waist. “Perhaps she does not need  _so_  many blankets, hm?”

 

“I don’t want her to be cold,” Selene frowns turning in his arms to face him. He sees glimmers of red in the backs of her eyes, and an outline of horns this close to her.

It is days like these he is thankful Elanna is not a mage.  
  


“Perhaps she could keep one or two of the blankets then, while she drinks the hot chocolate you prepared? She can hardly use her hands the way she is settled currently.”

 

Selene’s frown deepens, and he sees a tail flick in her shadow. But after a moment, she glances back at Ana, and lets out a relenting sigh. He gives them a gentle kiss on the cheek in thanks before releasing them.

 

Selene grumbles slightly as she unwraps Ana, leaving her with just two blankets, one over her shoulders and one over her lap. But Ana seems to relax, significantly, which lowers Selenes own stress level he notes.

The thought that this is perhaps what a family is  _supposed_ to be like crosses his mind as he leans against Selenes shoulders and drapes one of the discarded blankets over the two of them.

He wonders if he could entice Ana into approaching Selene about the pros of having small feet pattering around the house.

–——

 

Dirthamen thinks that it would, perhaps, be a good thing to bond with Ana outside of the house.

This is what he reminds himself of when he goes to pick her up from school on a day where Selene is going to be working late.

 

“Would you like to get some ice cream?” he asks.

 

Elanna raises an eyebrow at him, and tugs slightly on the edge of her knit cap. “Uh, sure.”

 

They walk to the local ice cream shop together, Dirthamen asking casual questions about Elannas day and schooling, and Elanna answering them with the usual teenage 'fine I guess’, 'sure’, and 'uh-huh’s.

 

When they arrive, they each choose their preferred flavor and toppings, and sit down at one of the booths inside, rather than going back out into the cold.

 

“Soo…why are we doing this?” Elanna asks from around a mouth full of butter pecan and captain crunch berries.

 

Dirthamen swirls his toppings through his ice cream awkwardly and avoids her gaze.

“I thought perhaps we should get better acquainted. Since we are inhabiting the same house hold.”

 

“Uh-huh…” Elanna nods dubiously, slipping her finger less gloves off and tucking them into her backpack.

 

He takes several spoonfuls before tapping his spoon nervously against the side of his cup.

Elanna has been with them for a little over a year now. He is still unsure how to broach the subject again with Selene, but he is certain it will go over better if he has Elannas comfort accounted for first.

 

“So, are you trying to like, be my dad or something?” Elanna asks, as her spoon falls into her already emptied bowl.

 

Dirthamen blinks.

“No. Would you like me to be?”

 

Elanna shrugs “I don’t really care. I already had a dad. And a mom. And an Uncle. So.”

 

He nods “I was not trying to force myself into your life. I actually wanted to speak with you, before I asked Selene something.”

 

“Oh. You’re finally proposing then?”

 

His brows furrow and he shakes his head, but then pauses. “I was not planning to, yet. Do you think I should?”

 

“I mean, I guess? You guys like, live together and share a bed room and do adult stuff together. I guess I just figured you’d be getting married and popping out babies soon.”

 

“Yes, that is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

 

“Ok? So talk to me.”

 

“I would like to have babies with Selene.”

 

“Ok.”

 

“But you are also a part of our family.”

 

“Alright.”

 

“And we do not want you to feel left behind in any way.”

 

“Cool.”

 

“…So you would be alright if Selene and I decided to have children?”

 

Elanna shrugs “Can I still keep my room?”

 

Dirthamen blinks.

“I…do not see why not.”

 

“Then go for it, if it makes you happy.”

 

Dirthamen nods, and gives Ana a smile.

“Thank you.”

 

She shrugs her backpack back on. “No problem.”

 

–——

 

Selene’s back arches as she bites down on the back of her hand to keep from yelling too loudly, and Dirthamen lifts his head from between her legs.

 

“Dirthamen, I swear to the gods, if you stop again I am going to scream,” she mutters without any real heat behind it.

 

He places a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh in response.

“Have you given any further consideration to my question?”

Selene groans “You’re asking me  _now_?”

  
He licks a stripe through her folds and her groan turns to a moan.

 

“It seemed like a good time to bring it up,” he responds, lips brushing against the base of her stomach.

 

“It’s not. It’s a good time to bring you up though,” she mutters, hands drifting to his jaw and gently pulling him up until her mouth is pressed to his. She flips them, making quick work of his clothing, and ensures that he is well worn out by the time she’s done.

-

 

Selene taps her pen repeatedly against her desk. She’s trying to review her emails, but everything just keeps blurring together.

Dirthamen wants babies.

Dirthamen wants to  _have_  babies.

She’s not even sure if that’s something she can do.

 

_If you wanted to, I’m sure we could._

 

Selene sighs, and scrubs at her eyes with the palm of her hands.

That’s what it comes down to, she supposes.

Whether or not she  _wants_  to.

 

…It’s not like she  _doesn’t_  want to.

She just doesn’t know if she’s ready, yet.

They’ve had Ana for a little over a year, and Uthvir has only recently stopped teasing her for taking her role as 'Mom Friend’ so literally.

 

But Dirthamen seems determined to get some sort of child in the household. Selene chuckles, as she briefly wonders if he inherited his fathers soft spot for children in this lifetime.

She misses when she could just borrow a baby from someone else. Like Uthvir, or Venavismi, or Serahlin and Adannar-

She pauses.

Adannar.

 

Yes, that could work.

 

Selene picks up her phone, and dials one of the few companies she’s still a partial owner of.

-

 

Dirthamen and Elanna are sitting in the living room, playing an intense looking game of Guess Who when Selene walks through the door that evening.

 

“Welcome home,” They announce in unison without looking up.

 

A tiny yap sounds from the other side of Selene, and both of their heads whip up immediately.

 

Selene grins “I’m home! Who wants to help me unload the car?” As she turns, they notice a small kennel crate being carried in her arms. Elanna practically crawls on all fours in her rush to meet the new creature.

 

Selene carefully places it down on the ground, and closes the door behind her to keep it from getting loose, deciding to get the rest of the supplies in a little bit.

She kneels, and asks Ana to take a few steps back as she opens the door.

A very small gold and white Akita puppy stumbles out of the cage, blinking and sniffing at the air around him.

  
“Elanna, Dirthamen,” Selene says gently, digging a treat out of her purse and holding it out “This is Ein. Some people at the animal rescue found him last week. He’s blind in one eye, but very sweet, and in need of a home.”

 

“He looks like a toasted, fluffy, marshmallow,” Elanna marvels, and Selene hands her a treat to feed to Ein, and then another for Dirthamen to do the same.

 

She watches, as Dirthamen carefully observes the puppy’s curled tail wag when it eats from his hand.

Des watches, too.

Waiting.

 

And then they see it. The smile curling at the sides of his mouth, and they know then, that they have succeeded.

 

He loves the dog, as surely as he would love any other creature they brought into their lives. Selene feels a weight lift off of her own shoulders, one she hadn’t even realized she was carrying.

 

She slumps back against the door, and watches as her family makes space for one more member.

Ok.

This, she can do.


	10. That Lifetime Where Thenvunin Thought Uthvir Was a Vampire

When Thenvunin is four years old, his Papae takes him to the beach.

It’s a surprise trip. They told Mamae that they were going to the park. Thenvunin has his purple Dinosaur and his bucket and shovel for the sandbox, but then Papae doesn’t drive to the park, They go further out, down to the beach! Thenvunin is bouncing in his seat when Papae tells him about the surprise.

He likes the beach. There are  _seagulls_  at the beach. Papae puts his big sun hat on him, and makes him wear sun screen. And they have to go further off to where there’s less people, so they won’t have to look at Thenvunin. But the beach is the beach, and they set out a big blanket, and Thenvunin goes hobbling along looking for rocks and shells and Papae doesn’t even scold him for getting sand in his braces.

When Thenvunin starts to get tired, instead, his Papae picks him up and hugs him tight.

“I love you,” he says. 

“I love you too, Papae!” Thenvunin chirps, but then he frowns because Papae’s eyes are red.

“Whassamatter?” Thenvunin asks, patting his cheek.

His Papae lets out a long breath.

“I’m sorry, son. It’s just that - all your treatments cost a lot of money. You know that, right?”

Thenvunin feels his throat go a little tight, as all his good mood from the day starts to sink away. He looks down at his smiley-face t-shirt, and nods. He knows. He’s ‘spenive. Papae doesn’t like it when the mail comes; he and Mamae always have fights, then.

“It’s not your fault,” Papae tells him. “You can’t help it. You just aren’t strong enough.”

“I’m getting strong!” Thenvunin insists. Mamae always tells him that. He makes his muscle, and Papae laughs. But it still sounds sad. And he brushes Thenvunin’s hair back from his forehead, and kisses him again. Closing his eyes for a minute, while his shoulders shake.

“I can’t, I can’t,” he says, quietly. And then he lets out a long breath.

“Papae?” Thenvunin asks, uncertainly.

“I’m sorry,” Papae says, again. “I wanted today to be a nice day.” He looks out at the water, and closes his eyes again. 

“Do you want to go swimming?” he asks, when he looks at Thenvunin again.

Thenvunin blinks, and turns towards the water.

“I’m not s’pose to go swimming in the  _ocean,_  Papae,” he reminds his father. “An’ I can’t get these braces wet! Mamae said!”

Papae stares at him for a long moment. Thenvunin wonders if he said something wrong.

But then his father just lets out a breath, and slumps.

“You’re right,” he says. “That’s - you’re absolutely right. I forgot.”

“What a strange thing to forget,” a new voice says.

Thenvunin blinks, and his Papae goes all stiff, as they both turn to look at the new person.

They’re a very pretty person. With long dark hair, like Mamae’s, dressed up all for the beach in a wide-brimmed hat and shiny sandals and a  _sarong._ Thenvunin likes sarongs. He can’t have one ‘cause it would just get caught up in things.Sometimes Mamae lets him wear skirts, though, and those are just as nice.

Papae laughs.

“I’d lose my head if it wasn’t screwed on right,” he tells the stranger.

They smile.

“Would you now?” they ask, and Thenvunin thinks it sounds like something the bad person in a movie would say. But then they look down at Thenvunin, and their expression goes all soft and nice, and they take off their sunglasses.

“What a wonderful little boy,” they say.

“Hi!” Thenvunin greets. “I’m Thenvunin. I’m four years old. What’s your name?”

Papae’s grip on him tightens reproachfully.

“Son, we’ve been over this. You don’t say that to strange grown-ups,” he says.

Oh.

Right.

“Sorry, Papae,” he says.

Then he lets out a long breath.

“I’m tired. Can we go home now?” 

He wants to show Mamae his seashells. Papae nods, and says ‘of course’, and they start packing up their things. The stranger moves a little closer, but Papae doesn’t say anything to them. Thenvunin wonders if they like seashells. He moves a little closer, and holds one out to them.

“Wanna see?” he asks.

“Thenvunin, no,” his father tuts, and pulls him away. “Don’t bother strangers.”

“But I-”

“It’s alright,” the stranger says, and crouches down. “Hello, Thenvunin. My name is Mel, and I am quite a lot older than you. Was there something you wanted to show me?”

“Please don’t encourage him. It sets a bad precedent,” Papae says, in his angry tones, and Thenvunin deflates. They were having so much fun, and then he ruined it. He feels his eyes itch, and Papae finishes packing their things and scoops him up, and it all happens so fast that he leaves behind his bucket with his seashells in it.

He cries about that. But that just makes things worse.

“Stop it, Thenvunin,” Papae says, while they drive. “You need to toughen up. Do you want your mamae to see you crying when we get home? Do you want her to think you hate the beach, and should never go there again?”

No. No he doesn’t. He draws in great gulping breaths and tries to stop, but that just makes him cry harder. Papae goes around the block an extra time until he finally stops, and wipes his face, but when they get in Mamae’s mad about his leg braces, and asks what Papae was thinking, they’re going to be impossible to clean, and Papae didn’t do it properly and now Mamae will have to because otherwise Thenvunin will be itchy all night.

“Where’s your bucket?” Mamae asks him.

And Thenvunin starts crying again, because his bucket’s at the  _beach,_  and Mamae tells Papae he has to go back for it, and Papae says it’s late and he doesn’t want to, but then he does, anyway. Thenvunin feels bad, but Mamae says he shouldn’t, that he didn’t do anything bad but now they’ve got to get him all cleaned up. She starts taking him to the kitchen, when the doorbell rings.

Mamae answers it, and goes “for pity’s sake, Nadas, if you forgot-” and then stops.

The stranger from the beach is on the other side of the door.

They stare at Mamae for a moment, with an expression that’s hard to read. And then they smile.

“Hello,” they say. “I’m sorry to trouble you. But I was at the beach when your… husband, perhaps, was there with your son, and I believe he left these behind?”

They hold up Thenvunin’s lost bucket, still full of all his shells, and his heart soars.

And that’s when things start changing.

~

Nanae Mel has a lot of friends.

So does Thenvunin’s Mamae.

Grown-up friends are boring, though, so Thenvunin doesn’t really think a lot about it. He has friends, too! He’s friends with his step-brother, and he’s friends with his classmates, and he’s friends with some of the big kids who’re nice to him, and he’s friends with some of the nurses and Doctor Wynne, too.

He sees his Mamae’s friends a lot more than he sees Nanae Mel’s, though. Nanae Mel says that’s because most of their friends live in Tevinter, and that Thenvunin will probably have to be older before he can meet them.

“When I’m fixed?” Thenvunin asks.

Nanae Mel leans down, and cups his chin.

“You’re not broken,” they tell him. “We just have to wait until we can get you on a plane.”

Oh.

That makes sense.

Thenvunin nods and then asks Nanae Mel if they can make wings. Nanae Mel says no, they can’t, but they’ve known people who can. They ask if Thenvunin saw people with wings on television, and he says ‘yes’, and doesn’t bring up his dreams. People who talk about their dreams all the time are  _boring,_  he knows. 

His teacher says so. And he says that making up stories is ‘telling tales’ and it’s bad, too, but then Nanae Mel comes to parent-teacher night and calls him an oaf, and then there’s a long talk and Nanae Mel asks how Thenvunin would like to move to southern Antiva, to be closer to his step-brother and a few of Nanae Mel’s friends, who are also Aelynthi’s parents?

Thenvunin decides that’d be okay. Especially when Mamae tells him that the house they’re moving to has room for a bird cage.

While they’re packing things up, Nanae Mel leaves their phone in Mamae’s room. Thenvunin sees it buzz, and knows not to touch. But he goes and looks at the screen, and there’s a picture on it.

He stares at the picture for a moment.

It’s an elf. On Mamae’s phone when it buzzes, sometimes it shows pictures of her friends. Thenvunin supposes this must be one of Nanae Mel’s friends. They’re frowning in their picture, which is silly, because everyone knows you’re supposed to  _smile_  when you have a picture taken. But they’re really pretty, too. Thenvunin watches until the picture goes away, and wonders if all Nanae Mel’s friends are pretty.

He hopes they don’t mind him.

~

When Thenvunin is twelve, a new book series comes out. Sweeping through the bestseller lists, and all the older kids are reading and talking about it. He begs and pleads and eventually his Mamae pre-reads it, and she takes a while to decide, and talks to Nanae Mel about it - and then finally,  _finally,_ she gives him the first book in the series.

He doesn’t even know why there was a fuss about it. He’s read Young Adult books before, he’s a good reader. He thinks it might be because it’s full of scary vampires and stuff, but Aelynthi sagely tells him that it’s probably because it’s got kissing and junk instead.

Thenvunin still waits until it’s daylight to start reading, though.

The book starts with a teenage girl - nearly grown-up - going off to live in a remote town in Nevarra, with her eccentric grandfather. The town is full of secrets and mysteries, but nothing quite so secretive and mysterious as the young man who works for her grandfather. A young man who never seems to go to school, who has no family, who eats little, and sleeps rarely, and always looks at the protagonist with an unfathomable longing in his gaze…

Thenvunin is hooked. He wants to move to Nevarra and meet a secret vampire and fall in love. Nanae Mel tells him he has to wait until he’s older, and that he shouldn’t set his heart on Nevarra. Mamae says that she’ll buy him the next book before he has to go into the hospital again, so he can have it to read while he’s there.

In the next few years, though, the series produces five books, all of which dominate the culture of his early teenage existence. There are six movies and a television series, and in the second book a rival love interest shows up, and there are teams of people who fight over who should win Jessamine’s love - the brooding and dangerous Octavian, or the noble but zealous vampire hunter, Ethan.

Thenvunin starts out on Team Octavian, but then he starts thinking that maybe Jessamine  _should_  end up with Ethan. They’re not bad together, and that clears the way for Octavian to end up with someone else. A new character. An elf, maybe. An elven man, because Octavian’s  _said_  he ‘usually doesn’t like women’, and it would be silly not to like women just in  _general,_  so probably he meant that romantically, Thenvunin thinks. So a male character is just sensible. 

He writes his first fanfiction. Thenerassan moves to Nevarra, looking for the secrets of his family’s history. Secrets that are tied to Octavian’s own sordid past…

Nobody likes it.

He only gets one comment and it says the story is terrible. It’s mortifying. He deletes his whole account, and the story, and vows to never write anything again.

It takes him about a month to get over it, and start writing again.

This time he puts up a big huge disclaimer, first, like he’s seen on other stories. He starts over, and renames Thenerassan so no one guesses it’s him again. He calls him  _Thane,_  which is another cool name, even if it’s less elven. And he doesn’t mention him being an elf this time, and that seems to work a little  better. He still gets some mean comments, but he also gets a few thumb’s ups, and some people say it’s interesting and they want to read more.

So he writes more.

By the time he’s sixteen he’s got a healthy - but not exactly popular - account of stories on one of the fan forums, and he’s bought a Team Ethan shirt to wear at conventions because he’s started shipping them, now, but he still keeps his Team Octavian one but secretly in his head that’s for Octavian/Thane. He doesn’t wear it in public, though. He wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea.

Some kids in school tease him for it, of course, but there are a lot of fans at school, and they have a big enough group that they can stick up for each other. Mamae says there’s nothing wrong with his interests, and Nanae Mel tell him that there are bullies in every community, and until society actually changes the most important thing is that he doesn’t date one.

They talk about it while Thenvunin is helping them sort some things in their closet. While he’s opening a box of shoes at the bottom, something flutters down from the top shelf, where his Nanae Mel is working. It lands on his head.

He blinks, and picks it up. It’s a photograph. An old one, by the looks of it. Except his Nanae Mel is in it, and they look the same age as they do now. Although that might not mean much, neither Nanae Mel nor Thenvunin’s mamae are the types of elves that show their age in a hurry.

Maybe it’s a relative? Or one of those novelty photos?

There’s someone else in the picture with them. Someone vaguely familiar, although Thenvunin can’t place where he might have seen them before. They’re dressed in a leather jacket with spikes on, and a pair of old-fashioned sunglasses, and it looks like they’re unhappy about something. Nanae Mel is looking over their own sunglasses at whoever is taking the photo.

“What’s this?” he asks.

Nanae Mel looks down, and then hastily snatches up the photo.

“Never mind that,” they say. “I think we’ve done enough closet sorting for now. Come on, let’s go get something to eat.”

Thenvunin blinks.

Well, it wasn’t much of a mystery  _before_ , but with  _that_  kind of reaction - from Nanae Mel, of all people - now he finds himself burning with curiosity.

“But who was that in the picture with you?” he asks.

“No one,” Nanae Mel says. “I don’t recall. It was a long time ago.”

Are they… getting flustered?

“How long ago?” he wonders.

“I don’t recall,” they tell him, again. And that’s all they will say about it, really, which means that of course, he can’t stop thinking about the matter. Turning it over in his head. When he sneaks into their closet again the next day, while they’re out, he can’t find the photograph, though. Most of the boxes that had been up top are gone, too.

He tries asking Aelynthi, but Aelynthi doesn’t know anything about it.

“I think they’re just playing around,” he says. “Nanae’s too clever, if you really caught them in a lie, you’d never know it.”

“Unless it was a deep, dark secret that they never expected to have uncovered,” he counters.

“They wouldn’t keep that in a closet,” Aelynthi insists.

Thenvunin is convinced, though.  _Something_  is going on. He stews on the possibilities all through his recovery from his next surgery, and ends up incorporating some of his ideas into his stories. 

But months pass, and nothing really comes of it. The last movie for his favourite book series comes out, and the excitement consumes everything else as people debate whether or not it’ll stay true to the books.

Thenvunin thinks it will. He’s pretty sure that if something’s going to deviate a lot, it will be the television series. They already changed a whole  _bunch_  of things in that. But he delivers this news with the solemnity expected of the Team Ethan co-captain of his local fan chapter - Jessamine/Octavian had been Endgame, in the books.

“Well. It  _is_  very romantic,” he allows, as his Nanae Mel drives him home. Aelynthi promised to go see one of the later showings with him, if he wanted, but skipped the premiere since Thenvunin already had friends to go see it with, and he’s not as big a fan.

Nanae Mel tilts their head.

“I like the reincarnation angle,” they say. 

Thenvunin wrinkles his nose.

“That theory was unconfirmed,” he says. “I don’t think Jessamine was Andrea’s reincarnation. They only said she was a descendant. Which is one of the reasons Octavamine is a kind of weak ship, you know, he only took an interest in her because she looked like Andrea, at first.”

Nanae Mel glances at him.

“Perhaps he just knew it was her,” they suggest. “Perhaps, when you live a very long time, you learn to recognize souls you loved before. And since you never stopped loving them to begin with, when you meet them again, you just keep on with it.”

Thenvunin resists the urge to sigh.

Nanae Mel’s an  _Octavamine shipper._  He supposes he should have seen that coming.

~

The week after his eighteenth birthday, everything swings sharply south.

There’s a complication to his last surgery. He almost bleeds out in the operating room, and they have to rush him to a magical healing facility down the road, and even though he’s unconscious for most of the emergency, when he wakes up he feels like he’s been drained to a husk. The healing room he’s in isn’t familiar. He wakes up for one disoriented moment, and sees a familiar face looking down at him.

A face he’s only seen in a photograph, before. That he recollects, anyway.

A cool hand presses to his cheek. The world feels fuzzy, and dark, as if there is something large and vaguely menacing looming just beyond his perception; but somehow, he’s not worried about it. A pair of brown eyes look into his own, before the stranger reaches up and covers them.

And then he falls back to sleep.

The next time he wakes up, he’s in the same room. But there aren’t any strange photograph dream-people in it. Just his Mamae, for now. He feels the usual pang of guilt for having worried her, as he sees her slumped over in a little hospital chair. One of her hands curled with his own. He wakes her, gently, and she presses her forehead to his and lets out a tremendous breath.

“How are my prospects?” he asks her. Because he knows, then, that something went wrong. He’s numbed with painkillers, and distantly sore. But he’s not sure what the damage is.

“There was a complication,” she tells him, a little faintly. “You lost a lot of blood. But they caught it in time, and got you here. You’re going to be fine. The healers say they can handle the rest. Some recovery, and… no more surgeries.”

Thenvunin blinks, and then swallows.

“No more?” he asks. Even though he knows that was supposed to be the case. Part of him still can’t believe it. Of course, things could change - life is unpredictable - but for the foreseeable future, for now…

“No more,” she promises.

His Mamae cries.

He does, too.

~

He goes off to university in Antiva, to take courses on writing and literature. Vague notions of becoming a novelist and teacher dancing in his head. Nanae Mel meets a published author named Kass, a Vashoth woman with the most adorable little toddler, and Thenvunin is glad because Kass has a lot of good advice, and little Ashokara gives his parents someone to spoil while he and Aelynthi are busy figuring out their lives.

When he graduates, Nanae Mel suggests that he take a ‘writer’s retreat’. They have a friend who has a friend who owns a lake house in Tevinter, they say, and it’s being rented out, and it’s a bargain really. Thenvunin thinks seeing a little more of the world might be just the thing for him, so he packs up his bags and reminds Nanae Mel to look after his Mamae for him - even though he doesn’t need to - and he goes.

Tevinter is a big change from Antiva. The culture, the climate, the people - there’s a humidity that clings to the air, that doesn’t smell like the shining blues of the ocean winds, that tend to sweep through the streets of Antiva city. Leaving behind the scent of salt and clarity, until the city rush can fill it up again.

Tevinter’s humidity is cloying and heavy, and the lakes don’t smell of ocean salt. The roads are worse kept the further Thenvunin gets from the cities, and there are storm warnings all over the radio stations. He hopes his Mamae doesn’t hear about them and worry, as he stops in the last town before the cabin roads take over, and makes sure to pick up some extra supplies. Just in case he gets stormed in.

The cabin itself proves to be a very nice little place. Thenvunin likes it immediately. It’s secluded and private, but still has a good view of the lake, and isn’t so far away from the other cabins that he feels stranded. There are two bedrooms, both neatly made up, as well as  _two_  emergency back-up generators, an extra water tank, a supply closet filled to the brim with bottled water, and a fully stocked kitchen and pantry.

Thenvunin almost doesn’t know where to put half the things he’s brought along with him. There’s even a gift basket in the kitchen, along with a note.

_Help yourself to anything you need._

_\- Uthvir, Cabin’s Owner_

There are a list of emergency contacts and instructions on where to find a first aid kit underneath, as well. Very considerate, Thenvunin thinks. There’s no wifi password. He settles in, and unpacks his laptop, and verifies that there isn’t a signal. He’ll have to drive back out to do anything online, but he supposes that the point of a writing retreat is to write, anyway. And get inspired by the natural beauty of the world, and similar such things.

He calls his mother and Nanae Mel to let them know he’s arrived safely. The first day passes without much incident, apart from his need to figure out how the water pump works, and one ill-fated attempt to actually go out to the lake, that ends when he’s almost eaten alive by mosquitoes.

The bugs stay clear of a certain range of the cabin, though. He supposes its a spell, and he appreciates it; it makes the air less cloyingly heavy, too, as he heads back inside to take a shower, and then slather his bites in cream.

The next day, though, the storm hits.

Thenvunin wakes up in the early morning to find that the wind is whipping the trees up into a flurry. It isn’t actually all that alarming, at first. Rain sprays against the window on the west side of the cabin, but Antiva has its storms, and Thenvunin has seen much worse. The thundering clouds look pretty through the cabin windows, and mostly he just hopes that all the local birds are safely hunkered down, and that this weather is ordinary and quite expected by them.

By mid-afternoon, however, the trees are bending ominously, and the view of the lake looks like a choppy whirlpool, and the wind is rattling through every available avenue. The phones go down, and the power blinks out. The back-up generator kicks in. Thenvunin spends the evening wrapped up in one of the blankets in the downstairs bedroom, tapping away at his laptop until he’s run out of battery, munching on some of the ready-made food he brought and feeling, at once, adventurous, and a little lonely.

Day three starts out as stormy as the one before, but around noon, the weather starts to settle. Thenvunin ventures out of the cabin to see if there’s been any damage, but apart from a lot of blow-over tree branches and detritus brought up from the lake, there doesn’t seem to be much of an issue. The phones are still down, and he thinks to himself that he had better call home, just in case they heard about the storm. So he gets into his car, and heads back into town.

He has to stop a few times to clear fallen branches and things off of the road. He doesn’t actually mind it, though. There’s something immensely satisfying about being to haul and lift and shift heavy things away, and know that he’s not only helping himself, but also anyone else who decides to come along after him.

Even so, his trek is almost halted when he gets to a fallen tree, just a few miles out of town, that’s much too big for him to muscle out of the way. His little blue car doesn’t have much of a chance of shifting it, either, and so after a few minutes of pondering, he decides to check his cell signal and see if he’s close enough to town to get anything.

As it happens, he is. He phones his Mamae first, and she asks him about the storm; and he reassures her that everything’s fine. And then Nanae Mel comes on, and he admits that he’s a bit hedged in by a fallen tree.

“I’ll call Uthvir. They’re an old friend, they owe me a thousand favours by now, and they’ll take care of you,” Nanae Mel insists.

“Oh, don’t trouble them. I’m sure there’s some kind of clean-up crew that must take care of these things. I’m well supplied at the cabin…” he tries, but his nanae won’t hear it.

Instead they tell him to stay put. And this Uthvir must live close to the cabin they own, because it only takes about twenty minutes for Thenvunin to see a red SUV pull up the road on the other side of the fallen tree.

Thenvunin gets out of his car, and then freezes.

It’s them.

The person.

The one from Nanae Mel’s mysterious photo. The one they dreamed they saw in the hospital. That sharp and sleek mystery figure, who someone doesn’t look like they could be much older than Thenvunin himself; but of course, they must be. They’re dressed in dark leathers, with their hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, and though their jacket screams ‘city elf’, their boots and gloves are worn-in and clearly meant to be worked with.

Thenvunin feels a little tongue-tied as they move over to the tree, and start winding lines around it. Lines attached to their SUV, which is gleaming despite the mud splattered up one of its sides. 

_You’re being rude,_  Thenvunin reminds himself, and shakes his head.

“Hello!” he calls. “Thank you for coming to help. Is there anything I should do?”

Uthvir pauses, not quite looking at him.

“You’re good,” they say, right before the moment can get awkward. “Just stay put.”

Thenvunin shifts on his feet a little bit, and wonders what he’s supposed to make of this. Uthvir gets back into their SUV, and carefully reverses; and his apprehension rises, as he wonders if their vehicle can handle that big, heavy tree. But apparently it can, and they know it, as the engine growls louder and the trunk cracks and shifts, and eventually the manage to pull it sideways, and clear a lane.

When they stop, Thenvunin gets into his car, and drives it safely past the tree; and then he pulls over again, as Uthvir sets about unhooking the tethers they’d used. Feeling intrigued and strangely giddy as he gets out, and goes over to properly thank them.

“That was very impressive…”

He halts in his steps, as Uthvir finally turns to look at him.

For a moment, then, all he can think of is the description in that young adult series he used to read, of Octavian’s gaze when it first fell on Jessamine.  _A longing that made no sense, that was as undeniable as it was unexpected._  His heart skips a beat, and his mouth goes dry, and he knows that the likeliest answer is that he’s misreading the situation. But in that moment, he can’t convince himself of that. This Uthvir, whom he’s only really just met, this mystery, looks at Thenvunin like he is the first drop of water after a long, long drought.

“It was no trouble,” they say.

The spell breaks. Just a little bit.

Thenvunin swallows, and then clears his throat. The sky is still heavily overcast. Maybe… it was a trick of the light?

Uthvir looks away from him, swiftly, and stares at the tree instead.

“What did you need from town?” they ask.

“Oh, nothing exceptional,” Thenvunin assures them. At least this is fairly solid footing, conversation-wise. He shifts a bit, and the mud and grit on the road squelches a bit beneath his shoes. “There’s just no internet at the cabin, and the phones were still down.”

Uthvir nods.

“I know a good bar. It has free wifi. No one should bother you much there, if you order something and then just sit awhile,” they say. “Would you like directions?”

Thenvunin hesitates.

But he’s on an adventure. He’s supposed to be bold.

“Maybe you could take me there?” he asks. “And I could buy you a drink or something, to thank you for rescuing me?”

Uthvir stills.

One of their hands twitches, and their eyes close for a second. Thenvunin wonders if he’s made some serious social misstep.

But then they let out a breath, and incline their head.

“I’d like that,” they declare.

When they look back at him, he would swear there’s still that same strange, mysterious longing in their eyes. But it’s much quieter, now. Gentler. Still enough that he has to remind himself how to breathe, however, and how to avoid stumbling about like a clod, too, as he makes his way back to his car.

Uthvir takes the lead, and Thenvunin wonders just where all of this might be headed, as he follows after their red SUV.

~

Uthvir lets him buy them a drink. Just one ale, though. They talk a little bit about the cabin – mostly they just ask if Thenvunin has everything he needs, and then somehow Thenvunin finds himself talking about his writing, and studying, and Antiva. Uthvir takes off their gloves, and the hands beneath them are fine and sport fashionably sharp nails. When they drink their beer, Thenvunin spies the points of their teeth. The bar is dark and quiet, and their server nods at Uthvir, and smiles at Thenvunin, and otherwise doesn’t disturb them very much.

Over the course of a simple drink, Thenvunin manages to spill his own onto himself,  _twice,_ mentions his mother more than is probably appropriate for a grown man vacationing on his own, and once the subject of birds comes up – in his defense, Uthvir is the one who mentions the local wildlife – he babbles about that, too, until somehow two hours slip by and Uthvir gently tells him that they have a few other properties in the region to check in on. But that their personal number was among the emergency contacts that they left for him, and if Thenvunin wants to carry on with their conversation at another time, they would welcome it.

Thenvunin  _knows_  he’s blushing when he finally gets back into his car, and drives up to the cabin again.

He turns the matter over and over in his head. This mysterious Uthvir, with their sharp points, and their red, red SUV, and their voice that makes something in Thenvunin just… he doesn’t even know what. Except that he thinks he’d like to hear it again.

He’s had crushes before, of course. He gets them fairly easily. Nanae Mel’s always telling him he needs to think before he goes rushing off with the first pretty face he sees, and he tries to, he really does.

…Nanae Mel.

Thenvunin worries his bottom lip between his teeth, and then checks the phones again. It’s a safety issue, after all. And when they seem to be working, he does a test call to his nanae.

“Thenvunin!” they greet. “I was just about to call and make sure everything was going alright.”

“Everything’s fine, Nanae,” he assures them. “Uthvir came and helped clear the road, and showed me a few of the things in town. I’m afraid I might have talked their ear off a little bit. They’re your friend, aren’t they?”

“Oh, yes,” Nanae Mel confirms. A slight  _tap-tap_  tells him they’re clicking one of their nails against the side of their phone again. “We go way back, Uthvir and I.”

Thenvunin swallows.

“Really?” he asks. “I didn’t think they looked like they were much older than I am.”

“Mm. Well, yes, they’ve aged… gracefully. Rather like me,” his nanae says.

“How old are they?” he wonders.

“I couldn’t say,” Nanae Mel hedges. “Why? Considering an adventurous fling while you’re off in Tevinter?”

Thenvunin freezes.

“What? That’s – no, of  _course_  not, Nanae! I’m just – I just met them, and they’re your friend. And if you… if they were your ‘friend’…”

Nanae Mel chuckles.

“Oh, I’ve never slept with Uthvir, Thenvunin, you needn’t worry about that,” they say.

He lets out a breath of relief.

“Good,” he declares, and then catches himself. “I mean… not that I’m… I didn’t, I just meant… well, you’ve got enough to be going on with your love life, as it is, and that’s all. I wouldn’t want for anything to get complicated. Not that it would, because obviously, I’m not – I wouldn’t…”

Nanae Mel lets him taper off into unsuccessful obfuscation for a moment, before they speak up again.

“I’m not sure I could recommend it any case,” they say. “They have a lot of history, Thenvunin. You’d probably just be better off sticking to your writing, and not digging into it. I wouldn’t want you to get embroiled in any sweeping love affairs. That nice boy who works at the stationary store is still single, and you know he’s always been interested in you.”

Thenvunin makes a face.

Faethem. Right. Faethem is… there’s nothing really  _wrong_  with him…

“I’m sure he’s moved on by now,” Thenvunin murmurs, and his nanae chuckles.

“As you like, my little prince,” they say. “Look after yourself. And don’t go digging! You’re there to write, not uncover mysteries that are centuries old and will cause nothing but trouble.”

He blinks.

“Centuries?” he asks.

“Oh my goodness, is that the time? I have to go. I’ll tell your mother you called.”

Nanae Mel hangs up, and Thenvunin is left to silently contemplate his phone for a moment, as he turns that conversation over in his head, and thinks of sharp teeth and sharper eyes. Full of longing. Octavian and Thane, and odd concepts that flit through his mind as he cleans up some of the debris from the storm. He finds a little fledgling, a yellow bird he doesn’t know the name of. It seems a bit addled, but there are other yellow birds about; so Thenvunin just keeps near enough to make certain no stray predators happen upon it, and by evening, it is up and practising flying again.

He hopes his Screecher is doing alright. Nanae Mel got Screecher for him the first time they moved to Antiva, as a surprise, and Thenvunin had almost brought his beloved companion along for his trip. But then he’d worried about how they’d do on the plane, and now he’s glad that he didn’t; the storm would have been awful for them.

That night, he goes to bed, and dreams of dancing. Of hands and wings, and of the press of teeth against the side of his neck. His heart thundering in his chest, but with excitement, rather than fear.

He wakes up aroused and twisted up in his bedsheets.

While he figures out how to manage laundry with the cabin’s facilities – there’s a washer and a dryer, but filling up the washer with water requires a hose – he also finishes unpacking the books he brought along for the trip. Up until now they’ve been in a bag in the backseat of his car, mostly forgotten in the midst of everything else. He goes and gets them, planning to re-read one while he keeps an eye on the washer, and finds a book he didn’t pack resting on top of the pile.

_Spiritual Possession in the Modern Age,_  it’s called.

It looks like one of Nanae Mel’s books.

Thenvunin makes a mental note to return it to them – it must have ended up in his pile by accident – and leaves it in the bag, while he takes out all the rest.

He finds the first book of the Nevarran Vampire Chronicles, and turns over the familiar chapters, listening to the kch-kch of the washing machine, interspersed by the birdsong outside. And he thinks some more about longing, and sharp teeth.

_That’s silly_ , he tells himself.

But the thought sticks.

~

The next day he doesn’t quite have the nerve to phone Uthvir up out of the blue. So he goes into town, instead. He has plenty of supplies still, but he tells himself that he should probably replace whatever he takes of the cabin’s stores, and thereby manufactures an excuse to go shopping. The town doesn’t have a whole lot on offer. There’s the bar Uthvir showed him, and another one closer to a road that leads off towards the local mine. Most everyone either works to support the vacationers who live by the lake, or else they’re miners, it seems.

There’s a little book store, a pawn shop, a grocery store, a convenience store, and a few other places. A hair salon, but he doesn’t much like the look of it, and only one chain restaurant. The local diner seems more promising, so Thenvunin stops in there for lunch. It’s a slow day for service, it seems, and his waitress is friendly, so he ventures a few questions about the area.

“I’m staying up at one of the cabins,” he explains.

“One of Uthvir’s?” the waitress guesses.

“Yes,” he confirms. “Do you know them?”

She shrugs.

“As well as anyone does, I suppose. They keep to themselves a lot. But they’ve been around since I was a kid, swept in and started buying properties when the mine went into maintenance after the big market drop twenty years ago. Things have gotten better since it re-opened, but back then their cabin rentals were basically the only thing keeping us going. They’d let ‘em out to folks for free, part of some work incentive or something.”

“Twenty years ago?” Thenvunin asks.

The waitress grins.

“Yup. Some elves really don’t show it, do they? I guess they’re probably… forty, or something? Anyway. They’re a quiet type but they don’t rip people off,” she concludes, with a shrug. “Which makes them more popular than the magister. I’d rather pay them my taxes, anyway; they’d probably actually fix the roads.”

Thenvunin turns this information over, as he munches on his salad and some delicately grilled local trout.

The bookstore is his next stop. The proprietor admits that there isn’t a town library; the closest one is the next town over. But apparently there  _is_  a heritage website, and the bookstore offers its wifi password to anyone who makes purchases over a certain amount. Thenvunin thinks the saved trip to any other location is worth splurging on a few more romance novels, and settles in at one of the little bookstore tables to check out the website.

There isn’t a lot of information, though. Mostly just the usual ‘founded in such-and-such and age’ and then some magisterium pandering, glossed over atrocities from the days of legal slavery, and links to some of the job listings and community events websites. Honestly, he’s not even sure what he  _expects_  to find. He’s a little embarrassed when he realizes he’s basically going through the same motions that Jessamine had when she first met Octavian, as if he expects to uncover riveting secrets tying Uthvir to the history of this town.

He’s just about ready to give up and go, when the door to the bookstore opens, and he hears someone let out a surprised ‘oh!’

Looking up, he sees a woman staring at him.

She’s tall, and blonde. High cheekbones, dressed in a style that’s caught somewhere  between ‘unfashionably dated’ and ‘retro chic’, with a pair of glasses perched on her nose, and a look on her face like she just slipped up.

Thenvunin blinks, and glances around. But there’s really no one else she could be looking at.

“Yes?” he asks.

“Oh, I – uh. Just. Remembered something, I’m sorry. That was strange of me. Hello, I’m Selene,” she greets, shifting the satchel she has and offering a hand to him.

Thenvunin blinks again, but supposes it’s better not to be unfriendly. He shakes her hand back.

“Thenvunin,” he says.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” the odd woman asserts, shaking his hand with a very firm grip, and a slight smile. “You must be new to town. I know I’d remember seeing you around before.”

Is she flirting with him?

_You’re not supposed to meet the rival until the second book,_  he thinks, before internally shaking his head at himself. Although Selene  _is_  very tall. And nice-looking. And apparently likes to disregard fashion norms with wanton abandon – surely, he thinks, no one could fall so perfectly into a nebulous middle-line of self presentation without making a concerted effort to do so.

“I’m just visiting. Staying at one of the cabins,” he admits.

“Ah. One of Uthvir’s,” Selene says, with the words ‘of course’ drifting somewhere unspoken in the sentence.

“Do you know Uthvir?” Thenvunin asks. It seems like most everyone at least knows  _of_  them.

“I do. We’re old friends,” she admits, in a way that makes Thenvunin think if how Nanae Mel says ‘old friends’. And suddenly has him wondering what kind of history the two of them have together. Or what kind of current relationship they have, he supposes. He just met Uthvir. Maybe they’re dating? Or, no, people don’t usually say ‘old friend’ for someone they’re currently seeing.

Although Selene doesn’t really look old enough to have an ‘old friend’ either.

“I was actually going to meet them for lunch,” Selene says, looking thoughtful. “Would you like to come along? Have you eaten today?”

He has, of course. But an excuse to see Uthvir in person again suddenly seems very appealing, so after a moment, he agrees. Selene smiles at him, and then mentions she’s just here to pick up an order. As the clerk goes and gets it from the back room, Thenvunin manages to learn that Selene is also only vacationing here, though she does so fairly regularly. It’s her first time bringing along her boyfriend, though.

“My Dirthamen,” she says, and suddenly Thenvunin isn’t all that worried about her history with Uthvir anymore.

They head out, and Selene apparently has a bicycle rather than a car. She’s in town, not at one of the cabins. Thenvunin helps her get her bike onto the rack of his car, and she directs him to a little restaurant he’d missed, just past the ‘welcome to town’ sign. There isn’t much to advertise it; it’s little more than a grey block of a building, but when he pulls into the parking lot, he sees brightly coloured curtains and smells the familiar aroma of cooked batter.

They get out, and he’s right in the middle of asking Selene what the place is called when he gets cut off by the rumble of a truck heading down the main road.

He’s not overly familiar with trucks, and his back is towards the street. But he hears Selene exclaim something, and he turns and he knows at once that something is wrong. The truck is veering, moving towards the parking lot without slowing down. Half of its tires tear across the little square of grass at the roadside, and it barrels right towards the little restaurant.

And Thenvunin and Selene, as well.

_Oh, no,_  he thinks, and starts to run, but his impulses get a little confused as to whether he should move to the side or head for the door, and the truck is coming and his legs trip up like they haven’t for a year, at least, like he still doesn’t know how to use them. Selene shouts and tires screech, and then something closes around his arm and yanks him sharply forwards and upwards, and he smells leather and sees lights.

For a second he thinks he’s falling; and then he realizes that he’s been lifted up, instead.

The truck has stopped.

Uthvir is holding him. Mysterious Uthvir, now wearing a red jacket, has scooped him up like a damsel in distress, and moved him at least several feet away from the danger zone. The truck is on its side; the parking lot looks to have suffered heavily for the damage. A few barriers shimmer. Selene is standing in front of the restaurant door, and seems to have knocked the truck onto its side, and stopped the semitrailer from skidding into the front of the restaurant.

Judging by the positioning of the hand they’ve got at his back, Thenvunin thinks Uthvir might also have contributed to that.

He’s suddenly very,  _very_ glad to learn that they’re both mages.

“Are you alright?” Uthvir asks him.

Thenvunin blinks at them, at something of a loss for words.

Their brow furrows, and his skin tingles, as it feels like something presses against it. Probably the lingering magical energy in the air.

“Thenvunin. Are you alright?” Uthvir asks again, more urgently. Still holding him like he hardly weighs anything.

“I’m… yes?” he manages, swallowing. His heart is pounding, and he’s not entirely sure that all of that adrenaline is, strictly speaking, from fear.

Uthvir lets out a breath, and Thenvunin holds his own, all at once very aware of the arm they have tucked up under his knees, and the one at his back. How close they are, and hot. Very hot. Also, apparently, strong.

“The driver,” Selene says, then, and the moment breaks. Thenvunin turns towards the truck, as people begin to pour out of the restaurant, exclaiming over the accident. He clears his throat, and waits for Uthvir to put him down. They give him a careful once-over before they set him gently on his feet.

“I’ll be right back,” they tell him.

Thenvunin nods, and it’s probably a testament to how bizarre the whole situation is that it’s only when they’re helping Selene try and get into the tipped-over cab of the truck that he thinks to check on his car.

His poor, little car, which has definitely been crunched between the truck and the barriers, and the concrete parking barricade in front of it. The front and back bumpers both look like they’ve been smashed. Thenvunin frowns, worried, and then looks back at the truck. Wondering what in the world happened to the driver. Did they have a stroke? Fall asleep? Get drunk? He’s none too pleased with the incident, but he hopes they aren’t dead. And that the truck isn’t about to explode or something.

It… isn’t, right?

He looks at the still-turning wheels, and the tipped-over semitrailer. He can’t see any smoke, at least. Not from the cab, either, as Selene starts asking loud questions of – presumably – the driver. Some of the people from the restaurant move in closer. A few lift up their phones and take pictures. Thenvunin wonders if any of them have called emergency services, and then after a moment, decides he shouldn’t assume and fishes out his phone to do it himself.

There is, as it turns out, no hospital in town. That’s one in the next town over. There’s also a fire and rescue station between the two points, and the woman on the other end of the line informs him that a rescue truck has been dispatched, and will get there before the ambulance does. That’s about when Thenvunin hears police sirens, and the local law enforcement arrives.

They take over the matter, as he more or less spectates. One of the officers gets a statement from him. Selene ends up staying with the driver – who is alive still, but badly hurt – because she, apparently, knows some healing magic. Uthvir comes over while Thenvunin is trying to figure out what he’s supposed to do about his car.

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t fuss so much about it. But he can’t very well walk to his cabin from town. For one thing, it’s very far, but mostly, it’s just too likely that the weather will open up and drop another storm on his head.

Do they have cabs in towns like these?

He doesn’t even know.

And Selene’s poor bicycle is crunched up somewhere in that mess, too.

Uthvir follows his line of sight.

“Don’t worry about it,” they say. “I’ll call a tow for you, and take you back to the cabin. If you want.”

Thenvunin lets out a breath.

“I don’t suppose there’s much of a taxi service?” he asks.

Uthvir shrugs.

“There’s one. But it’s pricey. If you prefer, though, I could call them,” they offer.

Thenvunin blinks, and then shakes his head.

“What? No, I just – I wouldn’t want to put you out,” he says. “And I don’t know how I’d get back into town, or where the repair place is. Or how long it will take, or how much it will cost…”

He’s fretting, he knows. But Uthvir just nods in understanding, and folds their arms. Sharp gaze fixed on Thenvunin, with an expression that is a little hard to read. They move closer, too. Just a few steps, and then they drag their gaze away from him, and back over to his car.

After an awkward moment, they shrug.

“I go out to the cabins a lot anyway,” they say. “However long it takes, I won’t mind playing your personal taxi service. And you’re hardly going to be considered at fault for the accident, so I wouldn’t worry too much about the repairs, either. The local shop has replacement rentals, but they’re usually out. Especially this time of year. Storm season, and all – a lot of accidents happen. There’s a bigger one the next city over, though. If it becomes an issue, I’ll help you get a replacement.”

Thenvunin swallows, touched by their easy willingness to help him.

“That’s very kind,” he notes.

They wave it off.

“It’s basic decency,” they insist.

Their SUV is parked on the opposite side of the lot, and managed to escape peril, at least. And it’s nice. Probably even new, Thenvunin thinks, as he climbs into the passenger seat. Uthvir waits until he’s buckled in to start driving, and then it takes them a while to actually get out of the parking lot, as most of it’s been sectioned off by the accident, and the number of spectators who’ve turned up to see what’s happened are currently crowding the road. By they get out there, and it’s only once they’re driving back through town that Uthvir seems to think of something, and frowns.

“What were you doing with Selene?” they ask.

Thenvunin blinks, and then realizes what they mean. In all the excitement, he’d forgotten what they’d been doing before.

“Oh. I met her at the bookstore,” he explains. “She introduced herself and we got to talking, and she said she knew you, and that she was meeting you for lunch. She invited me along.”

“Ah,” Uthvir says.

They tap their fingers against the steering wheel.

“Are you hungry?” they ask.

Thenuvnin shakes his head.

“Oh, no, I ate,” he admits. And then he comes up short. “Earlier. I mean. I had a late brunch.” Not technically untrue – a lunch is, in some respects, a ‘late brunch’.

Uthvir smiles, just a little. Amused. It’s an expression that looks good on them, and also makes Thenvunin think he should duck and find cover. Or possibly a floor he can sink through. Somehow, with just the tiniest curve of their lips, he gets the impression that Uthvir has him all figured out.

“Why, Thenvunin,” they say. “Don’t tell me you accepted her invitation just so you could come and have lunch with me?”

He frowns, fighting off a wave of embarrassment.

“Don’t be silly. It was a friendly invitation, I was being sociable,” he insists.

Uthvir’s smile is, he realizes then, most definitely a  _smirk_. And it is the insufferable kind, he just knows it. What kind of person is conceited enough to assume that someone would manufacture excuses just to meet them again? Even  _if_  it’s entirely true. The least they could have done, Thenvunin thinks, is not say anything out loud about it.

He folds his arms, and huffs.

But then Uthvir glances at him, and their gaze is all soft and strange again. His heart skips a beat, right before they look back towards the road.

“Sure you don’t want a bite to eat before we leave?” they check.

He swallows.

“I’m good,” he decides. “…Thank you.”

They incline their head, and take him back to the cabin.

~

More and more, Thenvunin is becoming convinced of one ludicrous, wondrous, impossible, exciting idea:

Uthvir is a vampire.

It all adds up! The sharp teeth, the mysterious age issue, the fact that Thenvunin has only ever seen them when it’s cloudy outside. The unexpected strength, and the way they managed to move him out of range of a skidding truck in what seemed to be the blink of an eye.

Selene’s probably a vampire, too. Nanae Mel would absolutely hang out with vampires, Thenvunin thinks.

_It’s finally happened,_ he finds himself concluding, excitedly.  _You’re finally in one of your books!_

He has to calm himself down at that, though. Just because Uthvir is possibly – probably – a vampire doesn’t mean that they’re Thenvunin’s vampire love interest who is already in love with him because he’s the reincarnation of their long-lost heart. That’s probably getting a little bit ridiculous and over-romantic of him.

But three days after the accident, Uthvir is still driving Thenvunin anywhere he wants to go, and Thenvunin finds himself manufacturing more and more reasons to call them and spend time with them. More clues add up:

When they come to get him in the morning, and it’s sunny out, they’re wearing big, dark sunglasses, and have gloves on.

When they order dinner at the town’s ‘decent’ bar, Uthvir doesn’t  _touch_  the garlic bread. (Thenvunin doesn’t either, after a few bites,  _and_  he takes a breath mint… just in case).

When they’re talking idly about magic and mages one afternoon, Uthvir mentions that they can grow wings, but doesn’t demonstrate it. (Are they  _bat_  wings???)

When Thenvunin somewhat pointedly mentions his interest in vampire romance novels, Uthvir asks if he’s read the ‘Twilight Saga’, and winces. Thenvunin’s never even heard of it; he finds out it’s a centuries-old pop culture phenomena, and downloads the books from the public domain website.

He can see why Uthvir would be worried about them. Vampires with near-indestructible bodies, super strength and speed, who live off of animals and can go out in daylight – even if it’s  _telling_  when they do – and who can  _read minds._

That last bit is the most worrying.

Thenvunin’s not entirely sure if Uthvir can read his mind. He tries thinking at them that their secret is safe with him, and it prompts them to ask if he needs an antacid. But they also seem uncannily good at picking up on his body-language, sometimes, and they always seem to know what kinds of places or things he’ll find interesting, so maybe they’re just polite and don’t use their powers all the time.

On the fourth day after the accident, Thenvunin’s car finishes its repairs. Uthvir takes him to go and pick it up from the shop.

As glad as he is to see it, Thenvunin also feels a little bit… disappointed?

He’s not going to have any excuses to spend time with Uthvir anymore.

He frowns as he settles behind the steering wheel, and Uthvir leans in through the window.

“Mind if I come along for a test drive?” they ask.

Thenvunin nods at them, readily.

“Hop in,” he invites, and they do; slipping quietly into the passenger seat. They actually do seem to focus on the car as Thenvunin pulls out, though. At least at first. Listening to the engine and the tires, holding up a hand to request quiet for a few moments. Until they’ve been driving for a while, at which point they nod in satisfaction.

“Acceptable,” they declare. “Well. It would seem you won’t be needing me to play chauffeur anymore.”

Thenvunin nods, and then hesitates. And then he carefully pulls over, because he’s really not supposed to drive when there’s a decent chance of him becoming suddenly upset. Then he turns in his seat, as Uthvir regards him curiously.

“We could still see each other, though. If you want. On… dates, maybe?” he asks.

Oh, gods. He’s terrible at asking people out. Directly, anyway. He can ask them to go for a coffee or something just fine, that’s a  _specific activity,_  but just asking if… just, establishing these parameters. He’s not good at it. He always seems to miss something or assume too much, or too little.

And this time, especially, he feels like he’s standing a tightrope. Wobbling in the open air.

But then Uthvir smiles.

It’s a very soft smile, for all that it features some very sharp teeth.

They lean forward, and their fingers brush against the line of his jaw. Thenvunin holds his breath, and lessens the distance between them a bit more. He closes his eyes, and is not left hanging when he feels Uthvir’s breath so close to his skin, and their lips press against his own. They cup his cheek as their mouth works, soft and sliding, so sweet at first that he almost can’t stand it.

Until they nip him, playfully, just before they pull back.

“It’s been a long time since I… had someone,” they admit.

Thenvunin blinks his eyes open again, and swallows.

“We can go slow,” he offers.

Uthvir inclines their head.

“That would probably be for the best,” they agree.

~

They barely make it through dinner at the cabin, before Thenvunin finds himself pressed up against the wall of the little dining room. Uthvir’s mouth on his mouth, and their hands on his hips. His own gripping one of their shoulders, and buried into their hair, respectively, as they kiss him breathless and rock their hips into him,  _hungry_  in such a way that even if he hadn’t already guessed, Thenvunin thinks he would have figured them out by then.

Hungry, and he supposes he knows what they want. What these spellbinding kisses have all been leading to.

Thenvunin tilts his head back, and bares his neck. And Uthvir does fall upon it as if they have been dying of thirst. His breath stills, but they don’t bite him. Not right away. Their lips brush against his pulse, and they kiss him, and suck a delicate bruise into his skin. All nips and licks, as every touch seems to make him shiver, and he wonders what they’re waiting for.

And then it occurs to him.

Permission.

Uthvir is not an  _evil_  vampire. They don’t look at him the way someone looks like food, even with all that hunger and longing that’s spilling out of them, now.

Thenvunin swallows, and brushes his hand down their back. They shift, and sigh, and caress the side of his neck with sweet kisses, until he tilts his head towards them, and musters up his courage.

“You can bite me, if you like,” he whispers.

The offer seems to still them both in varying degrees of surprise.

Uthvir glances up at him, and look like they’re assessing something. And then they smirk, that low, slow smirk of theirs; that right now shows off the points of their teeth, and makes Thenvunin shiver again. They tilt their head back down, and kiss his neck again. Lingering almost lovingly over his skin, before their lips part and he feels those sharp points press against it.

It doesn’t hurt. There’s a sense of pressure to it, but Thenvunin supposes that the erotic vampire novels he’s read got it mostly right – there isn’t a lot of actual pain, or even much sting. They don’t suck at him, though. Instead he feels a rush, a tingling in his flesh, that makes his skin seem much more sensitive. He becomes even more intensely aware of their breath against him, and their hands upon him. Nails digging in a bit more firmly to the fabric of his pants.

It doesn’t last long. They pull back well before he even thinks to feel imperilled, and lick over the bite, and provoke another shiver from him. He bites own his lip but can’t quite stymie a moan as even just the weight of his clothes feels near to over-stimulating, now, the confines of his pants and the material of his shirt conspiring against him, brushing his flushed skin with every minor shift and move he or Uthvir makes.

They grind against him, and he gasps outright, clutching their shoulders as they bite him  _again_ and press at his straining crotch, making his heart pound and his cock throb. They lick the second bite, and then move their mouth up to nip at his earlobe, and whisper a filthy suggestion to him.

“You should come in your pants,” they say, pressing firmly against him again. “Come for me, babe.”

He gasps, and wonders if it’s one of their vampire powers right before he does just that. And then he doesn’t wonder about a whole lot for a moment, as his mind blanks in the rush of pleasure, his body pinned between Uthvir and the wall, shuddering through an embarrassingly swift climax. Which might, for once, not actually be all  _that_  embarrassing, since his partner literally asked him for it.

Uthvir runs a soothing hand down his side, and lets up the pressure a little as they kiss him tenderly again.

“Thank you,” they say.

Thenvunin huffs.

“You’re bossy,” he notes, as he sags against them a little.

For some reason, it just makes them smile.

“However bossy I get, anything you want don’t want to do – just say the word, and I’ll stop,” they promise him, sincerely.

Thenvunin appreciates the gesture. But despite his recent climax, he doesn’t particularly want to stop. Instead he has another suggestion, which he whispers to Uthvir; which makes them grin, then, and sweep him off to the bedroom.

They’re not very good at taking it slow, he doesn’t think.

He wonders if all vampires have this kind of libido, or if just builds up when you go a few decades – maybe even centuries – without getting laid.

_Your secret is safe with me,_  he thinks, again.

Just in case. 


	11. Melarue is Amused

It doesn’t take much to connect the dots. Melarue has, after all, been slowly dropping hints about Uthvir throughout the years, and Thenvunin seems as taken with them this time as they have every other. 

Really, if Melarue and  _Deceit_ , whose entire premise is based on their ability to lie to themselves, can come to the conclusion that perhaps it’s fate, then Uthvir should just accept the fact that Thenvunin is going to want them no matter how many times he dies and lives.

Well, Fear can be fickle. It’s been hard going.

But this…this is just perfect. Thenvunin thinks that Uthvir is a  _vampire_. Like the kind in those young adult books he was so fond of as a child. When they come to the conclusion initially they find themselves so utterly amused they can barely stand it.

Someone needs to know about this. Someone who will find the entire situation as humorous as they do.

They call Selene.

And after that, the two find themselves rather unable to keep from adding on to this theory. And really, after living so long, having a go at Uthvir is a breath of fresh air. Especially when in the end it leads to Uthvir and Thenvunin enjoying each other’s company.

A  _vampire_ though. This is too good.

It starts out small. Mentions of Uthvir being paler than usual, asking if they need to “go out for a bite”. Then somehow all the drinks in Uthvir’s fridge are red, and there’s a catalog for coffins left conveniently on their coffee table.

Selene makes a habit of walking into someone’s home first and announcing, “Uthvir, I invite you in!”

Uthvir, to their credit, seems rather bemused with the idea as well.

Melarue and Selene begin to carry gigantic parasols, for sunny days of course, and always make certain to hold them over Uthvir’s head when going outside. Like any good friend of a vampire would do.

Uthvir thinks they may have gone too far when they find all the fake highschool diplomas with different graduation dates placed strategically around the house after a date with Thenvunin.

“He’s going to think I’m mocking him.”

“Then stop biting his neck and tell him the truth,” Selene responds. Melarue nods sagely, and ignores the fact that Deceit is always against telling the truth and agrees wholeheartedly with Uthvir and Fear.  _Oh shut up,_  Melarue mutters,  _I can’t believe the only one of you siding with us is Desire._

Des, for his part, is unoffended.

“We are friends, Uthvir, but if you hurt my dear Thenvunin I will have to do something about it.” Melarue sighs, “A stake through the heart, perhaps.”

Selene snickers, and Melarue’s smile widens.

Uthvir frowns, “It’s complicated.”

“It always is,” Melarue lifts their wine glass, and Selene follows suit in a mock solemn toast. “Join the rest of us in just accepting this chaos for what it is… _Octavian_.”

Uthvir lets out a gusty sigh, and Selene throws her head back and laughs.

_It’s good to have friends after all_ , Melarue thinks fondly, as they sip their wine. They certainly make it all easier to endure.

**_Next time around, I’m certain you’ll be the butt of the joke_** , Deceit warns.

Melarue grins.  _Oh I would like to see them try._


	12. Finding Kel & Truths Told

The baby is an elf. Small and round, with dark skin and pointed ears, and big brown eyes. 

It is Selene who brings her home, one evening after a ‘meeting’ which she would not tell Dirthamen the particulars of. The baby is bundled up in a soft grey blanket, with tear-tracks on her cheeks. But she is not crying, when Selene carries her through the door. Dirthamen is not certain of how to discern age, but he does not think she could be more than a year old, or thereabouts.

The blood on Selene’s shirt does not appear to be her own.

“I have to go make a phone call,” she tells Dirthamen, with a far-away look in her eyes. And then she hands him the baby, as easily as if she has handed him a thousand babies before. Dirthamen takes the tiny person carefully, with some vague notion of supporting her head and bottom, and frowns in concern.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Magisters,” Selene says. Which is an answer and also not. Dirthamen blinks down at the baby, who sniffs and stares back up at him.

“Pa?” she asks.

 _Alright,_  he thinks.

They have… tentatively discussed parenthood. Dirthamen did not anticipate Selene simply bringing a baby home one evening, under circumstances more dubious than even the puppy’s arrival, but the situation is what it is. Despite her assertions of making a phone call, Selene appears to be going distant-eyed, and may be experiencing difficulties with her status as an abomination. Dirthamen takes her hand, and quietly steers her into the kitchen.

With very little prodding, Dirthamen manages to get Selene to sit down at the kitchen table. Whilst holding the baby, who has one tiny hand fisted in his shirt, now, and is sniffling and seems as though she would like to be crying, but has simply run out of energy for it. Is she hungry? Dirthamen has nothing to feed her and nothing to feed her  _with,_  so he supposes he will have to do something about that. They do not have baby supplies. They will need to acquire some.

He considers the options, as Selene stares blank-eyed at the tabletop. He does not think he should leave her alone with an infant in her current state. While he doubts that she would harm the baby, she might not be able to actually pay attention, either, and if anything happened… she would not take it well.

Neither would Dirthamen, for that matter.

He thinks he should reach for her, but the baby is moving a lot and he does not want to risk dropping her, either. She makes a sound of distress, and this summons the dog, who pads over from the hallway. Tail gently wagging, clearly here to investigate the strange situation. This musters Dirthamen enough that he recalls Ana, who is sleeping in her room – who will no doubt be surprised to be woken up to find a mysterious baby and a bloodied Selene, but who can also, he thinks, be trusted to watch both while Dirthamen retrieves necessary baby-care supplies.

“Selene?” he says first, however.

She blinks, and looks up at him.

“Who did you wish to call?”

Her gaze drifts over to the baby, and she seems like she is trying to figure something out. But whatever it is, is eluding her. Dirthamen gives it a moment more, before he assures her that he will be back; and then he heads down the hallway, and goes and rouses Ana.

Who is, indeed, startled by the situation.

“I don’t know anything about babies!” she says. “I only ever watched the younger kids at the facility, and they were never  _this_  young!”

“Just make sure she does not come to harm, and keep an eye on Selene,” Dirthamen says. “I will be back as quickly as possible.”

Ana frowns, but after a moment, nods in agreement. She takes the baby from him, the both of them careful but also awkward, attempting to rebalance her weight between them without mishandling her. One tiny fist remains clutched in Dirthamen’s shirt, until he carefully eases it away, and after some consideration, puts it on Ana’s instead. Ana, who makes a comforting noise, and frowns worriedly at the baby as she follows him back to the kitchen.

Dirthamen pulls out his phone and launches a quick google search on what, generally, one requires for looking after an infant of indeterminate age. He reads as he makes his way swiftly out the door, and jogs down to the car, and then sets off for the nearest applicable store that will be open this late. He decides that covering the bases would be wisest at this point, and retrieves some basic formula, and supposedly leak-proof diapers, and the only clothes they have that look like they might fit the baby, and some mushed up baby food in case she is eating that instead, and a bottle, and DIY baby pen and a crib mattress. There is no actual crib he can buy at this hour, not that he can find, but he supposes the pen is soft and secure and might serve with a mattress in it, or else they can work out some other solution. He bundles everything into the car, and drives back – violating some traffic laws along the way.

When he returns, the house is quiet. He nearly finds it to be  _too_  quiet, but then Ana is there, holding a sleeping infant; and she nods, and he checks. Selene is still staring off into space. But her breathing is regular, and she blinks a few times. Even though her magic seems to be trying to untangle itself from some internal knot of its own devising, and there are twinges of magical exhaustion lingering at the edges of his ability to detect them.

Given Selene’s nature, he cannot help but wonder what she could have possibly done to over-exert herself.

But then there is the baby, and Ana, and she and Dirthamen have to attempt of figure out how to change a diaper – the one the infant is currently in is soaked and soiled – and they discover that only one of the three outfits he was able to acquire actually  _does_  fit, and the baby’s eyelids keep fluttering and they are not certain if she is harmed or merely exhausted. But it seems to be the latter, as Dirthamen nevertheless makes a bottle for her, and Ana gets the pen set up and then carefully settles the baby onto the little crib mattress.

“What the heck happened?” she asks, quietly.

Dirthamen looks towards Selene.

“I tried. She’s totally out of it,” Ana says. “Should we… call somebody?”

He considers. Uthvir, perhaps? But they do not know what happened. Only that Selene left to engage in questionable business, and Dirthamen is aware that her ties to Uthvir and her involvement in ‘questionable’ activities are not unrelated. What if there is a problem with Uthvir? What if calling them is precisely the  _wrong_  thing to do? He does not know. And unless something goes wrong, he thinks, it would be better to wait, than to act and commit to the  _wrong_  action.

“Give it some time,” he decides.

They wake the baby up, briefly, to see if she is thirsty. She fusses and makes a few protesting sounds, but does drink a few mouthfuls of formula from a bottle, before falling asleep again. Dirthamen watches her breathe for a few minutes, before telling Ana she can go back to bed, if she would like. She has school in the morning, after all. But Ana only shakes her head, and then declares that she will watch the baby.

Dirthamen goes back into the kitchen, and kneels down next to Selene. He reaches for one of her hands.

Eventually, she does turn towards him.

She is still wearing a bloodied shirt.

“She almost died,” Selene says, quietly.

“The baby?” Dirthamen asks.

A nod.

“What happened?” he presses. Her hand turns in his, and then, with very little warning except for a sudden  _snapping_  of the circuitous knot of her magic, Selene crumples. Falling, sliding down off of the chair, as her arms come around his shoulders. Dirthamen catches her. Keeps her knees from hitting the hard kitchen floor, as she clutches him with her considerable strength, and lets out a painful sob.

“There was a fire,” she says. “And my babies, in the fire. And she had you, and she hurt you. They blew up the house, they tried to kill ours. Mine. I went and there were children, and they were going to kill the children. Going to ‘dump them’, and I saw her, and there was fire and they were going to… but we killed them, instead. We killed all of them, but the children were scared, and the sirens were coming, and I could not… I could not leave her, she is of one of  _ours._ ”

Dirthamen makes a soothing sound, trying to make sense of what she is saying, and utterly failing to. It is clear she is still upset, and confused. She seems to be trying to explain, but struggling to separate reality from dreams, perhaps. With one foot too deep in the Fade, perhaps that is only to be expected. Dirthamen runs a hand up and down her back.

“It is alright,” he says. “It is alright, you are safe now. The baby is safe now. I have you, Selene.”

She lets out a shaky breath, and after a few minutes, Dirthamen manages to pick her up and carry her over into the living room. To where she can see Ana, and the baby. He settles her down onto the couch next to him, still running a hand up and down her back, feeling the ebb and struggle of her internal magical tides as best he can.

Still. It is nearly dawn before she sucks in a breath, and straightens up again. Blinking as if she has just awoken from a long sleep. Her gaze moves to where Ana is dozing with the dog, next to the little baby pen, and its sleeping occupant. And then fixes onto the infant in question. Intent and searching, as if she is looking to fit the pieces together in some mental puzzle.

Dirthamen does not stop her as she gets up, and moves closer to the baby.

Selene stares at her for a long moment, before another deep breath escapes her. And then she shakes her head, and reaches into her pocket. Fumbling for her phone. She pulls it out, and presses a number.

There is a brief wait, before Dirthamen hears Uthvir’s distinctive tones answering. Their voice too muffled for him to make out the particulars.

“I found Kel,” Selene says. “You need to come here right now.”

There is no answer. But after a moment, Selene hangs up, and does not seem surprised.

“Who is Kel?” Dirthamen asks.

Selene looks back down at the baby.

…Oh.

For some reason, it had not occurred to him that Selene might actually have a name for their unexpected guest.

~

The morning proves to be a strange one, when it finally arrives. Selene seems to have sorted herself out, and promptly takes over infant care – she seems loathe to put Kel down once she has the baby in her arms again, in fact, and Dirthamen finds himself thinking that this is a good sign. At length, under Ana’s persistent questions and Dirthamen’s long looks, Selene admits that she has been raiding elven trafficking rings that target children; pointed in the direction of several by her investigations into the facility which had taken in Ana and Dirthamen.

Last night, it seems, she had run into some trouble, and had barely made it back out again with Kel hastily scooped into her arms.

Dirthamen finds himself wondering how she gleaned a name for the infant, yet again. But he does not press that question. Ana attempts to make the case that this is sufficient cause for her to remain home from school for the day, But Selene makes her go anyway, reminding her that she has a test she should not skip.

When she has finally gone, Dirthamen settles down onto the couch, next to Selene and the napping baby in her arms.

It is a nice image, he thinks.

“We could keep her,” he suggests.

Selene’s expression twists a little. She opens her mouth, and closes it again. Looking down at Kel with something that Dirthamen cannot quite read in her gaze.

“She is Uthvir’s,” Selene tells him.

He blinks.

Of all the possible responses, he must admit, that was not one he might have foreseen.

“I thought you said you found her in an elven trafficking facility,” he replies, baffled.

Selene grimaces.

“I did, but… it is more complicated than that,” she tells him. “She is… just. You will have to take my word on it. I should have called Uthvir as soon as I got here, but…”

Dirthamen looks at Selene, and the baby, and feels a pang again.

“If she is Uthvir’s… have they not been irresponsible with her?” he wonders. Not that he wishes to speak ill of Uthvir, but they are an elf of means, and Dirthamen is having difficulties imagining how a child which is ostensibly theirs could have ended up in such a dire situation without  _something_  untoward being at play. “Perhaps they are not suited to parenthood.”

Selene snorts.

“No, they are,” she says. “Believe me, if they had known, there would be a lot more blood on the docks tonight. We can’t keep her, Dirthamen. She’s… Uthvir is her nanae. They will want her, very much.”

And that is all she will say on the point, it seems, no matter how hard Dirthamen attempts to convince her that they should at least consider other possibilities. She holds Kel with tenderness and care, and seems to need to reassure herself that the infant is alright – and, oddly, that Dirthamen is alright, too – but she will not budge on the idea that as soon as Uthvir comes, they will sweep this baby up and there will be no arguments on that front.

Dirthamen wonders if he will have more of a chance to argue if Uthvir should arrive, and prove reluctant to live up to those expectations.

A half an hour after Ana leaves for school, however, a car tears into the driveway. Fast enough to make the gravel skid, and then the front door is opened – the wards shattering like broken glass – and Dirthamen reflexively moves in front of Selene and the baby, before Selene hurriedly grabs him and  _drags_  him back, and this seems to  be the only thing that spares him from being bowled over by Uthvir, who is fairly crackling with tension until a somewhat startled baby is deposited directly into their arms.

Dirthamen’s fingers twitch.

Uthvir stares, silently, at Kel. Who blinks in confusion, and then starts to cry.

To Dirthamen’s surprise, Uthvir begins to cry as well.

“Shh,” they say, swallowing and cradling her closer. Resting a hand over the back of her head, as their eyes redden, and their lips tremble. “Shh, shh, shh. Baby.”

Dirthamen stares as all the tightly-coiled strength seems to go out of Uthvir. They drop to their knees, rocking the little baby, who seems confused and distressed but also willing to accept their attempts at comfort. Clutching tiny hands around their collar, and managing a few jumbled baby noises, as Uthvir’s shoulders shake.

“Nanae’s here,” they say. “Nanae’s got you.”

The scene makes Dirthamen’s heart sink. He is not even certain if it is the fairly obvious realization that Selene was correct, or if it is in sympathy to the equally obvious distress that Uthvir has apparently endured over being parted from their child. But it makes him feel heavy, and distinctly at a loss, as he stares at this unexpected reunion.

Selene’s hand finds his own, as her abomination friend weeps over baby Kel in the middle of their entryway.

The two of them will not be keeping her, he knows.

 

~

 

Uthvir leaves by the time Ana gets home.

Selene offers to let them take the supplies Dirthamen had purchased the night before, but they just take the food and bottles and diapers for the trip. Likely, Uthvir is going to be searching for the most well secured baby items they can get their hands on, if they can bear to let her out of their sight long enough to look at anything else.

It’s fine, though. Kel belongs with Uthvir, and it’s good that they’ll have each other again.

 

Dirthamen seems rather disappointed by the whole event, though. Selene’s not sure how to explain it to him in a manner he’d be satisfied with.

 

 _You could tell him the truth_ , Des offers.

 

 _I doubt that would go over well. What if he stops trusting us? Or gets creeped out? Or leaves?_ She argues.

 

_Sure, because he ran right out the door when he heard you were an abomination. Not like he instantly agreed to perform a blood pact or anything. Oh. Wait._

 

_You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?_

 

_Not until something better comes along, no._

 

Selene sighs. Des actually makes a compelling point, not that she would tell him that. Dirthamen would probably take the whole thing in stride, like he’s taken everything else. There’s no reason not to tell him at this point, she supposes. Especially since Kels presence has had her thinking more and more on how much she misses having babies around, and how well Dirthamen had filled into the position of parent.

Not that she had any doubts he’d be a wonderful father. But it’s nice to have the reaffirmation, all the same.

 

She takes the week to dwell on it. Ana passes her test and goes to school and plays with Ein while Dirthamen works at the shop and Selene follows up on the Magisters and tries not to think about fire and blood and how many others are suffering that she hasn’t found yet. Selene texts Uthvir to check in throughout the week, and ensure they aren’t silently overcome by the situation. Everything seems to be going well for them, but with Uthvir they could be entirely overwhelmed and not say a word about it. Still, if things had turned particularly awful or dangerous, she supposes they would have turned to her for help at some point.

She hopes so, at least.

 

On Friday night, Ana goes out with some friends from school. Selene is hesitant, especially with recent events, to let Ana out alone with strangers. But none of them have any dangerous intentions that she or Des can glean when they arrive to pick her up, so she doesn’t hold her back, just reminds her about curfew and gives her a hug.

Ana does her typical wriggle out of it with a “Selene, stop, these are my  _friends”,_ but Selene knows she appreciates it anyways. Quietly.

 

And then it is just Selene and Dirthamen alone in their home, Ein sleeping peacefully away inside of Ana’s room.

Selenes nails tap heavily on the door frame, while Dirthamen dithers away in the kitchen.

 

“What would you like for dinner?” he inquires, gaze drifting over the contents of the fridge.

 

Selene only half hears him, still arguing with herself and Des over whether or not to even go through with this.

 

“Selene?” he calls, closing the door and turning to face her.

 

“Can we go upstairs instead?” she blurts.

 

He blinks, but nods. She gestures for him to go first, following him up the stairs and still half convinced this is a bad idea. Maybe she should have planned this better. Could she pretend this was something else entirely? Probably not, Dirthamen has gotten much better at reading her lately.

 

As he enters her room, which he turns and laces his fingers through hers, leaning towards her for a kiss. She sighs and returns the gesture, but pulls back before things can move any further.

 _Focus_ , she reminds herself.  _Stay focused._

 _Multitasking is always an option you know,_  Des chimes in.

 

Selene sighs and places her other hand gently on top of Dirthamens chest. “We need to talk.”

 

Dirthamen blinks and steps back, and oh, oh that was the wrong way to phrase that she thinks. “I’m not-That sounded worse than it is.” she attempts, stumbling to find the right way to phrase things. “I’m not-you didn’t do anything wrong, I don’t want to break up or anything, unless you do, but that’s-I mean I don’t think you do, although you’re certainly free to if you’re ever unhappy or uncomfortable or anything like that. I don’t want you thinking you’re trapped or…or anything.” She drags her hand down her face by the end of it, Des laughing in her head.

 

_Smooth._

 

_Shut. Up._

 

“This…” she sighs “It’ll probably be easier to just show you. Have a seat I’m gonna-I need to show you something. Things.”

 

Dirthamen nods, and has a seat on the bed, awkwardly debating whether to cross his legs or lay down or allow them to hang off the edge while Selene heads into her closet.

She pushes over the hanging dresses, uncovering the hastily packed box of photos.

Where does she even  _start_.

 

She kneels down, carefully lifting and checking each one; probably not one with Uthvir or Thenvunin in it, Uthvir would just be more upset if she keeps giving everything away and involving them. Not that Dirthamen isn’t going to draw his own conclusions anyways, of course. Would this be easier to explain if she showed him Kel, maybe? Or Ana? Maybe a group shot, oh but then she might get caught up naming everyone and-

 

_You’re stalling. Use the cake one._

Selene blinks, and looks at the picture already in her hands. She and Dirthamen, the first Dirthamen on their wedding day. They’re both laughing, and he’s got cake frosting all over his mouth and it’s all over her hands and they look so happy together. Before the fire, before she became…

She takes a deep breath and turns around, trying not to crack the frame in her grip as she walks towards him.

 

“So,” she manages, still standing with the picture in her hands, tilted towards herself so as not to show Dirthamen, this Dirthamen, just yet. “I’ve told you before I had a husband, yeah?”

 

He nods, eyes sliding down to the frame in her hands.

 

Selene takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and practically thrusts the picture under his nose “This is him. And me. I. This was us, on our wedding day.”

Dirthamen carefully, delicately, removes the picture from her grip, and holds it in his lap. He stares at it for a long while.

 

Selene watches his expressions shift as the puzzles pieces fall into place.

 

“Is that me?” he finally manages.

“Yep,” Selene pops, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet nervously “I know this is…weird, to put it bluntly. But I thought you would want to know. After Kel. And…moving forward.”

 

“I was your husband,” he reiterates.

“Yep,” she repeats.

“I do not remember this.”

“Well, no. It was…well, it was literally another life, for you.”

 

He blinks, before finally tearing his eyes away from the photo “So when you said you were older…”

“I really meant it.”

 

He nods again, a few times, before his eyes fall back to the picture in his lap. There is silence, while Selene wonders how to continue.

After a few minutes, Dirthamen speaks up.

 

“You look different here.”

“Well, I was in my twenties, rather than counting in centuries, so…”

“I do not- I apologize. I did not mean to infer you looked younger here. You look…happier? I have seen you happy, but this seems different, somehow.”

 

“Ah,” Selene swallows “Well, I wasn’t an abomination yet, when that photo was taken. Just. In love, and happy.”

“I see.” Dirthamen responds. He shifts around on the bed a bit before speaking again “Would it be too bold to ask, how you became an abomination, then? I had thought…typically, they are attributed to those with tragedy.”

 

“Tragedy doesn’t only fall on those who don’t know happiness,” Selene whispers with a sad smile.

 

Dirthamen swallows, and nods “I am sorry. I did not mean to offend you.”

 

“You didn’t. Really. Des and I go back to when I was still a teenager. Before I met you at all. In any form. He just sort of stuck around like a bad fungus-”

_HEY_

“-And one day, something happened and I….let him in.”

 

Dirthamen nods yet again, and doesn’t press the topic verbally. But she can see it, weighing on him, his thumbs rubbing over the edge of the frame.

 

She sighs, realizing that she’s really going to have to tell him _everything_.

 

“You had a sister. Two of them in fact. Well, three technically because marriage, but that’s not-that’s not important, sorry. But one of them in particular was…”

 _A Monster. Bloodthirsty. A stain on the face of the planet._  Des helpfully supplies.

“…prone to outbursts of cruelty.” Selene sugarcoats.

 

Des huffs.

 

“Anyways, you and I had children, at the time. One day you were home with them, and she came by and she…”

Selene swallows, pushing past the white and flames that threaten to pour out of herself even now “She tried to kill them. She set our home on fire, and kidnapped you. Left the twins to die, and tortured you. The twins survived, we had a-a friend who helped them get out in time. But they didn’t know where you were. I went after you, and there was a fight and I-” Selene shakes her head and lets out a heavy breath through pursed lips, pushing her way through wounds she had thought were long closed “I accepted Des’s help. To get him out. To make sure she could never hurt any of my family members again.”

 

Dirthamens hand settles over hers, thumb rubbing slow circles into her skin “So you did it to save him. To save me.” he whispers.

 

Selene nods.

 

“Thank you,” he says. It startles a laugh out of her.

“You don’t have to-You don’t have to  _thank_  me, gods. I just wanted you safe. I still want you safe. I love you, Dirthamen. I’ve always loved you.”

 

He swallows, and his eyes soften around the edges and get more than a little wet with tears before he leans in and presses his lips to hers, frame and photo placed carefully at the foot of the bed. “Thank you,” he whispers again, lips still pressed against hers. “Thank you, thank you,” he repeats, over and over, kisses placed between the words and Selene laughs and giggles just a bit at the ridiculousness of it all.

 

“You’re ok with this? Really?”

 

“Are you really asking if I’m alright having a soulmate? Someone who loves me throughout lifetimes and over eons and… _yes_ , I am okay with it, Selene,” he chuckles back, before sealing his lips over hers again. The force of it pushes Selene onto her back, him above her as her fingers brush through his hair and she sighs into his touch and he shows her precisely how much he loves her back.

 

_Told you._

 


	13. Aebee and Fireball

From a young age, Kass has enjoyed the lore of supernatural. 

It’s just so… _cool!_  Werewolves, for instance, are almost unheard of in Tevinter, but Ferelden lore is absolutely rife with tales of werewolves, and each Alamari clan had different tales and takes on the werewolves. Some viewed them as savage beasts whereas others saw them as gothic figures, embodying the tragedies of magic, man, and hubris. This doesn’t even factor in the various Ferelden Dalish folklore into the beasts.

She sneaks into her dad’s study late at night and uses his computer to do research, googling various things about various creatures. And in her research, she finds forums full of people who are interested in the very same things as she! 

Vampires, werewolves, griffons, faeries, you name it! People talk and talk and  _talk_  about the various things about them and she eats it all up. She gets her papa to buy her books about different myths and creatures even while Dad worries nervously over her.

“What if she’s a mage?” Dad asks.

“Then she’s a mage,” Papa replies.

“But isn’t researching this stuff…isn’t it like  _demons_  and shouldn’t demons stay away from demons?” Dad continues and Kass just rolls her eyes.

“Dad, I’m fine! It’s a hobby!”

It is not just a hobby. She writes any essay she can on these myths and creatures. Every “choose a topic” ends up being some new monster. And the obsession doesn’t disappear with age, if anything, it just shifts into the more logically apparent.

Abominations.

Really, there isn’t enough fair research done into them and the potential side effects of long-term spiritual possession. Rivain’s magical education to non-magical people (and really even to magical peoples, let’s be real) is woefully behind the times, still preaching about the dangers of all spirits over the very real and apparent applications of spirit magic and spirit manipulation. Sure, blood magic is still unsettling, even to Kass, but it is by no means inherently evil. The only inherently evil things are governmental power, and even then the evil can mitigated by the right people. But magic? Magic isn’t evil, and she refuses to believe that abominations are evil by default as well.

Who is to say why someone became an abomination? There are so many different kinds of spirits, from compassion to rage to fear to even mischief - and no one possession will be alike, that is just a logical “duh.” 

So Kass begins another round of her research. This research upsets Dad even more but Papa calms him down and distracts him with gross adult things. 

She finds more forums, though these forums appear to be run by some weird fetish people and she quickly clicks out of it. People are gross, she decides, and tries to continue her research in a better way - books at the library. Her school library can’t be trusted because of education guards, but the public library may have things.

Kass spends her teenage years mired in research and writing little stories about abomination protagonists. She goes to college for creative writing and begins to refine those short stories and begins the arduous task of finding a publisher progressive enough to put these stories out. 

She creates a pseudonym for herself because the Chantry isn’t going to like this  _at all_  and protective measures have to be taken. But also…she knows there are abominations out there, and no matter who you are, you deserve to have stories with people like you as the hero. So she wrote stories with abominations.

There’s Evie, a Desire Abom. And Janik, a Mischief Abom. Perin, a Despair Abom. Norine, a Pride Abom. And her personal favorite, Nala, a Cunning Abom. 

They’re her children, her characters, and she loves them dearly. 

She writes under the name K. M. Janneson and the backlash over the books is palpable. K. M. gets death threats, the Chantry bans the collection of short stories immediately, and just as many people buy because it is banned than people protesting it. 

In truth, she loves the controversy. But she also hates it because they have such a long way to go until people start accepting that these people are out there, and that’s okay, it’s not normal and it shouldn’t be exactly promoted, but those people shouldn’t be attacked or automatically vilified. 

Kass sets to writing her next book, a book about a young mage with spirit friends who help him discover things about his past and himself. This book isn’t met with as much divisiveness, but there is a certain level of caution in the air when she publishes it at the young age of twenty-four.

She’s twenty-five and at a bookstore, looking at the cover of her latest book when a shiver runs up her spine. Kass turns and her breath is nearly stolen away when she sees the beautiful person standing next to her. They’re tall, not as tall as her, but still tall, particularly for an elf, which they are. A beautiful, stunning elf that has her reciting poetry in her head. 

And they turn towards her, eyes like storms, face long and perfectly made up. Oh their beauty is like the force of a hurricane. 

Stop! With! The! Bad! Poetry!

“Ah, Janneson, their first book was quite the controversy,” they comment, looking at the book she had been eyeing.

“Oh, I…I heard about that but I haven’t read it. The Chantry banned it,” Kass answers. Their eyes flash and her heart flutters. There is something about them, something that she can’t quite pinpoint. 

They move their head and their dark red hair flutters about their jawline, and she briefly wonders what their skin feels like…

“It was an anthology of stories about abominations, of all things. But they were nice stories, very kind in their portrayal of the condition.”

“That is…very progressive of them.” Her editors told her to be as discreet about her authorship as possible since her material is so controversial, but she can’t exactly hide her viewpoints, not when a stranger appears and apparently shares those viewpoints…can she?

They lift an eyebrow and smirk at her before extending a manicured hand towards her.

“I am Melarue.”

She takes their hand, marveling at how soft their skin is, “Kassaran, or Kass for short.”

“Kassaran,” they purr, their tongue making her name sound like some sort of…sex thing. She doesn’t know, she’s never done this before! But as she watches them, she thinks that she may want to. 

“A pleasure to meet you,” she says breathlessly. Their smirk broadens.

“A pleasure indeed. So tell me,  _Kassaran_ , what draws you to the magical literature section when I can sense very clearly that you are no mage,” they inquire and there it is again! That flash, a brief…silvering of their eyes from the stormy blue-grey they seem to normally be. 

That…that is a very…that is she….

_People who are possessed and experiencing high levels of emotions will often show small physical signs of their guest. This can manifest in different ways - nails lengthening or changing color, eyes flashing to a different color, a suddenly intense flush of the skin. All of these things are often written off by observers as tricks of the light, quickly adjusting their mental perspective of the person before them._

But a singular flash is not indicative, not really. 

“One doesn’t have to be a mage to support mage rights and proper magical education. I could someday have a mage partner or a mage child, I would hope to be informed, and even if I don’t, I should be informed regardless.” She answers and their grin widens.

“What a lovely answer, from an even lovely woman.”

She blushes fiercely and looks away, “Oh-oh, that is, um.”

“Would you like to have dinner with me, Kassaran?” They ask and she swallows thickly before nodding.

“I would like that very much, yes,” she answers and their eyes flash for the third time, almost imperceptible and yet…

Oh. Well. They’re just like everyone else, really, they just…have a passenger. 

And in the end, it doesn’t change the fact that she has a date  _that night_  and she has absolutely  _nothing to wear!_  Oh this so not good! Do they like red? She thinks they probably do since they keep their hair red, and based off of research, it is supposed that aboms tend to have advanced shifting abilities so they must be making a conscious effort for the red hair…

Or maybe they’re a natural redhead and are keeping it to throw people off!

But no, this is not the time to contemplate aboms and their hair choices - she has a fashion choice to make, dammit. So she calls her friend from her writing program.

“I need your help with clothes.”

“ _Finally_ you are listening to me!” Thenvunin whines.

“Just…get over here!”  She snaps a bit too harshly.

“Fine! And stop biting your nails! I can hear it over the receiver.” 

She tries to do as he says but her hand continues to drift up to her mouth for her to nibble at her poor typing fingers. 

Thenvunin arrives in short order, knocking loudly against her apartment. She flings the door open, hair still in her curlers and in her worn robe. His nose wrinkles at the old, mangled thing and pushes his way to her closet.

“What’s the need anyways?”

“I have a date! A hot one, one with eyes like a storm and hair like -

“Poetry? You’ve got it bad,” he clicks his tongue and rummages through her closet, filing through things that she had previously thought okay but apparently were grievances against the fashion world. He comes to a skirt with a triumphant AHA and throws it at her.

“You can never go wrong with purple! And here!” He flings the scarf he got her for Wintersend, the one with little multicolored songbirds all over it, at her.

He goes through her drawers and pulls out an off-the shoulder sweater.

“You have nice shoulders, you should show them off.”

“You also have nice shoulders, you know, very nice to fall asleep on.”

“Don’t joke at other people’s expenses!” He whines and she sighs. She really does like his shoulders and they  _are_  nice to fall asleep on, she discovered that little fact during their History of Historical Dramas final paper. They were writing theirs together and she had conked out on his shoulder, he had apparently fallen asleep as well. 

“Look, just because that dickweed -

“Kassaran!”

“ _Dickweed_  said that shit doesn’t mean it was true. You deserve someone better, you know, someone romantic and beautiful who treats you like the prince you are and want to be.” She fixes him down with a long stare and he sighs before tossing the sweater at her.

“Get dressed, we need to fix your hair.”

An hour later, her hair is fixed and her makeup done, and dressed in a Thenvunin-approved outfit consisting of the purple skirt, the shiny-silver thread off the shoulder sweater, the bird scarf, and her favorite pair of boots. 

“I was thinking maybe a hat -

“No! It’ll smother the curls,” he argues and she guesses he knows best. She can never get this stuff right.

The doorbell rings and she has a brief panic attack before Thenvunin practically shoves her down the stairs and out the door. Melarue is standing there, looking elegant and beautiful and just  _wow_. 

“H-Hi,” she stammers. Melarue grins and their eyes flick back to where Thenvunin is currently failing to quickly and quietly stay out of the way.

“Hello, Kassaran. And who is your friend back there?”

“Oh that’s just Thenvunin, he helped me with the outfit…are you ready to go?” She asks and they turn back to her, holding their arm out.

“Of course, ready when you are.”

She takes a deep breath and then their arm. She’s ready, ready for her life to begin on whatever adventure lies ahead. 

 

~

 

Aelynthi is a good brother. He is very nice and does fun things for Ash. He likes to check the still small nubs of her horns, and sometimes he paints little things on them - like flowers and fun patterns. She likes to paint on him in turn but she’s not as good. But he still lets her dip her brush into the paints so she can try and make a feather on his arm.

“You’re a pretty bird!” She declares triumphantly after smearing some turquoise pant on his forearm.

“Caw, caw,” he says dryly before getting his own paintbrush and starts painting her horns. She giggles at the very faint, cold feeling as he doodles carefully. 

“What are you making?”

“You know it’s a surprise!” 

“Aeeee-bee! I wanna know!” She whines but he’s firm and keeps his mouth shut. But he’s smiling and she tries to figure out the shapes on her own. But she loses track of the brush strokes after a while. 

“Hey, Aebee?”

“Yeah, Ash?”

“Do you want horns?” It’s just a thought. He seems to enjoy painting hers so much.

“No, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love yours.”

“Okay….oh! I could paint your ears!  _Those_  are big!” She chuckles and he pokes at her shoulder. 

“Stay still! You’ll mess it all up.”

“Don’t you mean you will?”

“Of course not, that’s ridiculous.”

“No, Aebee,  _you’re_  ridicucululous,” she stammers out the last word but stands by it confidently. He pulls back from her, her grinning up at him as he puts the back of his hands on his hips, raising a brow at her.

“Is that any way to talk to your brother?” He says way too seriously to mean that he’s actually serious. 

She pauses and looks up at his hair.

“Your hair’s funny too,” and he’s about to snap back at her when she reaches up to tuck the stray hair down….only for bright turquoise paint to suddenly smear against his hair.

“Ooops.”

His jaw drops and he blinks in surprise.

“You did not. That’s it, it’s  _on_ ,” and he suddenly dips his hand into the hand and promptly smears it onto her nose.

“AAEBEEE!” She squeals and then it  _is_  on, with them running around the little art room their nanae has set up, covering each other in skin safe paint. 

The paint is very cold, but it’s amazing to watch her brother squirm as she lobs a handful of paint at him. 

Oh. Ooooops.

It smacks right into his face as he bends down, and she is suddenly struck by the idea that he should wear more red - it looks good with his hair. 

“Are you two starting a riot or something…oh my,” their nanae suddenly walks in and the entire air shifts. She glances over at Aelynthi and he back at her, and then their eyes slowly move over to their nanae. 

Hehehehe, this is gonna be awesome!

Aelynthi is the first to throw the paint, and it lands right in their hair. Thankfully they’re just wearing their old work jeans, the ones with weird flower patches in them. They stagger back for a second before grinning in that way that Ash  _knows_  means that is is even more on than it was before. 

Not to suddenly abandon her ally, Ash lobs a handful of orange at them, smacking them right in the knee. Their face lights up and they lunge forward, picking up some paint and running over to smear a big swath of mint green across her cheek.

“EEE!! Nanae!”

Aelynthi runs over and draws a giant swath of purple down their arm and they turn to paint sky blue over Aelynthi’s forehead.

“Nanae!”

Ash giggles and runs away, moving to a tube of mauve, squirting a large puddle onto the puddle of her hand. She can hardly keep still as she glances up at her nanae and brother who are locked into a weird dance of trying to cover each other in paint. Her brother is smaller than their nanae, and they use that to their advantage as they pull Aelynthi to them for a hug and smear campaign. 

Her heart races, her feet dance, and she lunges forward to throw the paint at her brother. She wants to throw the paint, she really wants to, wants to see it splatter against his back in a riot of color.

The paint does not go.

Fire does. 

Bright, blue fire. 

Ash screams as her nanae turns and immediately draws up a barrier around Aelynthi. 

The fire hits the barrier, absorbed and dissipated quickly before it can even touch him. 

No, no, no, no, how could she do that? How could ever do that?  _How_  did she do that?

“Aebee! I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” She cries, falling to the floor, crying. Nanae is suddenly there, pulling her into their arms.

“Shh, it’s okay, Ashokara, it’s okay. See? Aelynthi isn’t hurt, he’s fine, you didn’t mean to, and he isn’t upset, right, Aelynthi?” 

Aebee stoops down next to her and pets her hair, “No, no, I’m not upset.”

“See? Everyone’s okay, you’re okay, Aelynthi’s okay, I’m okay. We’re all okay.” They…all are, she sees that, sees no scorch marks on her brother or in the room at all. And Nanae is holding her very close, which is good because she doesn’t think she can stop crying any time soon. 

And she doesn’t stop for a while, clutching at Nanae and after awhile, she reaches over and latches onto her brother’s arm. 

“I’m fine, Ash.”

But she needs to feel him to know that. His skin is a little dry and sticky in some places from the paint, but it’s him, her brother.

“I love you, Aebee,” she whispers against Nanae’s chest.

“I love you too, Ash.”

Nanae rubs at her back and leans down to kiss her forehead, “You know this means you’re just like your brother and me, right? You’re a mage, just like us. Isn’t that exciting?” They says and she blinks up at them. 

“Will I grow wings? Or prick my fingers?” 

They chuckle, “We don’t know yet, we’ll have to wait and see - and I can’t wait to see all the things your magic can do, da’vhenan.” They pet her hair and she leans against them, the tension slowly rolling out of her shoulders. 

“Aebee?”

“Yeah, Ash?”

“Do you still want to paint my horns?” Her voice is small because she feels small, but she doesn’t want to be alone, doesn’t want to feel hollow and scared, and she doesn’t, not with Nanae and Aebee there. Their eyes are bright and nice and they’re so warm. 

Aebee chuckles and reaches up to tap her horns, “Of course, Ash, of course.”

She smiles and snuggles against Nanae again. Her magic, while sudden and bright and a bit scary, isn’t bad, she thinks, not if her nanae and brother are still happy to hold her and paint her horns. And she is just like them, magical and funny, and she loves them. Her nanae and her brother, who don’t have horns, but love hers all the same.


	14. Vampire Shenanigans Follow-Up

Thenvunin is…

Well.

Uthvir is, on the one hand, accustomed to Thenvunin being receptive to their attentions. They’ve been through two lifetimes of this, now, and while he has been somewhat different every time they meet him, some things have seemed pretty constant so far. What he likes. What he doesn’t like. His hesitance, some hang-ups… on one hand, they have to always make sure and move back, to remind themselves that this is  _young_  Thenvunin, that this is a man more like the one they had first fumblingly postponed intimacy with in their college years, or the man who followed Screecher back to their garden in Arlathan. The man who will be more inclined to stifle his cries, to shy away from certain things.

On the other hand, they have years full of memories of a Thenvunin that has gotten past a lot of inhibitions. And so when this one asks him to bite them, they have to wrestle with a moment of disconcertment, as their mind tries to parse ‘young Thenvunin’ with ‘active kinky requests’ and Fear kind of comes up short, until they more or less land in the vicinity of ‘well, if he’s  _asking…’_  and go from there.

It does make for… almost a challenge, though, as they do their best to try and remember that this is new for him, that  _they_  are new for him, that he is his own person and they cannot presume he will be like previous incarnations, that they must be careful… but also that he does not seem to need them to handle him with exceptional delicacy, as he eagerly strips out of his clothes, all but pulling them towards the bed. Flushed and excited and, yes, nervous, they think, but not…

Not afraid.

Not afraid of Uthvir, and not afraid of sex, either.

They find themselves shifting gears. Answering his eagerness in the way they are accustomed to, trying not to lose themselves in so many memories that they fail to appreciate the reality of having him back again. They press more kisses to his lips; trail them down across the planes of his body, rediscovering the sensitive places that make him shiver, make him gasp. It does not take much to have him hardening again, but it proves a more difficult task to swallow back the words the keep trying to flood out of them. Words that would be far too much, far too soon.  _I love you. I missed you. I want you so badly._

They let the last fly out, as he arches into their touch. Gripping him tight and growling it into his ear, before stroking him firmly enough to drag a whimper from him. His hips twitch, and he tilts his chin back again. Offering them his neck once more, and they suck at one of the bite marks already placed there. Stroking him, awash in more possessiveness than they know they should be. But they indulge in it for the moment as Thenvunin’s arms close around them and he buries a hand into their hair again.

“Stop, wait,” he says, and it is like a rush of cold water. Uthvir lets go of him, and pulls back. Looking at his face, immediately evaluating where they might have crossed a line, how they might apologize or…

But Thenvunin is still gripping their shirt.

“If you keep that up I’ll come again,” he says. “And I think I would really like to save for that when you’re inside me.”

Uthvir blinks.

Thenvunin shifts around a bit, spreading his legs some more, panting and flushed. As Uthvir stares at him, he hesitates.

“I mean… in the kitchen, you said…?”

Well. Yes. In the kitchen, they did indeed say that they should go to the bedroom so that Uthvir could fuck him properly. They swallow back their surprise again, as Thenvunin seems not the least little bit hesitant over it.

“Just let me get some things,” they ask.

“Did you want it another way?” Thenvunin offers.

“I think I would enjoy it all manner of ways,” Uthvir says, with fair confidence. They wink, and Thenvunin’s blush deepens, and that, at least, seems fairly consistent. They move away from him to go and get their bag – left by the front door – but Thenvunin stops them and opens up the nightstand instead, and. Well. Uthvir certainly does not remember stocking condoms and lubricant in the cabin (they are not  _that_  presumptuous) but they are more than willing to accept the convenience, as they take the offered items.

And it is not so different, when it comes to preparing him. Thenvunin still hides some of his reactions, it seems. Turning his head towards the pillows, and covering his face a little, as they get him on his side, and slowly work him open. They slip the condom onto their fingers, and reacquaint themselves with these intimate parts of him. Discovering a new birthmark over the curve of his left cheek – just a faint little dot – and an old, familiar spot inside of him, that makes his cock twitch when they curl their fingers against it.

They stretch him open until he is panting and clutching at the sheets, precum leaking out of him and breaths hitching every time they move their fingers a certain way. He is so lovely like this, in truth. They missed him so much, missed his company and his countenance and their connection, and they missed how  _this_  feels, to touch him and please him, to make love. It evokes feelings that are tender and hungry, and possessive, again, in Fear’s clutching way, because they want to keep him so much.

When he seems ready, they pat his hip and get him to roll onto his back again. Coaxing his legs apart, as they line up with him, and sink slowly inside. They clutch his thighs, and drink in the sight of him. The way his hands grip the sheets, the way his chest heaves, the wide darkness of his pupils, and the flush of his skin. Of his erection, as it strains up towards them. They go still with it, with this sight of  _Thenvunin,_  alive and well and real. Not so much intentionally drawing it out as utterly losing themselves in the moment.

“Please,” Thenvunin pants, then. Shifting his hips, and reaching for himself before he seems to decide the better of it. “Take me.”

Uthvir’s breath stalls, and their heart stutters. Their own flesh pulses a moment inside of him, as he constricts his muscles around them, a tight and hot squeeze that makes their thoughts fly away. It is not in them to refuse him, and in the moment it is so easy to give in. To pull back and then  _thrust_  in again, gripping him tight as they settle into a hungry, possessive rhythm. Fiercer than they might have planned, but Thenvunin does not seem to object, as his hands search for purchase on the surrounding bed before he finally settles on gripping  _them,_ instead, and Uthvir cannot say all that they want to, so they let other words pour out of them instead. A torrent of lewd compliments and encouragements, mixed oddly with poetry and praise, as they shift the angle and decide they need him closer. Forgetting subtlety at all as they drag him up and settling him into their lap, instead. Lifting his hips to move him up and down their length, his weight negligible, his arms wrapped around their shoulders and his cock bouncing against their stomach as he  _gasps._

They press a bite into his collarbone, and whisper benign blood magic against the broken skin, until their lips are tingling and his gasps turn very nearly to screams. He comes, spilling between them both, but Uthvir does not let up. Does not pause as they continue to move him, until he is boneless and breathless against them. Not until finally bring his hips down one last time, and feel their own pleasure rush from them. A warm wave of completion that spreads molten delight through their veins, and settles behind their ribs.

Thenvunin’s own panting is loud in their ears.

“…Wow,” he offers.

Uthvir kisses his shoulder, and has to fight back the urge to say something foolish or inappropriate, again. They catch their breath instead, content to have Thenvunin safe in their arms. At least until he begins to shift away. Then they let him work himself off their lap, and they slide out of him, as he rests against the pillows, instead.

“Alright?” they ask him.

He nods, a little dazed.

“What do you want to do next?” he asks.

Uthvir feels another rush of surprise. But this time there is more overall warmth to it. He is not afraid, because in this life, he has not been injured. Melarue did a good job in helping to look out for him. In knowing  _what_  to look out for, as well. They move back over to the nightstand, and fetch some wet wipes.

“I was thinking I might hold you, while we rest,” they suggest. “Unless there was something else you had in mind?”

Thenvunin swallows, and shifts a bit. But it seems more pleased than anything.

“There were a few things, but I guess we don’t have to get to them all at once,” he admits, clearing his throat.

Uthvir nods in agreement, and offers him a smile.

 

~

 

When Thenvunin’s vacation ends, he considers things for a long while, and then asks Uthvir if they would maybe possibly like to come and stay with him in Antiva for a while.

As soon as the invitation is out of his mouth, he almost regrets it. Antiva is  _sunny_. And it loves being sunny, it’s a place that’s full of beaches and bright, reflective surfaces, dazzling rooftops and solar panels and architecture that does its best to soak up the light without getting all the heat, too. Not a very pleasant place for a vampire, he imagines.

Uthvir tilts their head, considering.

“I would need a few weeks to get things in order here,” they say. “But I would like that.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t consider…” Thenvunin starts, and then comes up short. Blinks. “You said yes?”

Uthvir’s lips quirk. It’s morning, and they’re at the cabin, and Uthvir showed up half an hour ago with a small bag of donuts and a few stray kisses.

“So it would seem,” they agree. Then they lean in closer, and Thenvunin swallows as they curl a hand around the side of his neck. Over the bite marks they had healed for him yesterday. Their gaze flits down to his mouth, and they smirk, just a little.

“You have powdered sugar on your lips,” they say, confidentially; and then they lick it off, trailing their tongue over his bottom lip, before kissing him almost fondly. As Thenvunin’s brain catches up with him, he realizes that they have  _agreed,_  that they are going to go home with him, that Nanae Mel is probably going to be so surprised after all his insistence that he had no plan to pursue Uthvir. He feels a rush of excitement, and closes his arms around them. All but pulling them into his lap, until they break off the kiss.

They look a little surprised, as Thenvunin moves his mouth to their jaw, in turn.

“What?” he asks, softly, between kisses of his own.

“That was… bold of you,” Uthvir notes.

Frowning, Thenvunin pulls back a little.

“Should I not have done that?” he wonders. Was that too aggressive? He knows they’re strong, but maybe they don’t like being handled that way, all the same. Maybe he should be gentler. Who knows how many uncomfortable associations a person might get over centuries of living? Even vampires must have their troubles. Maybe something terrible happened to them, maybe someone hurt them. Maybe that was how they became a vampire to begin with. Some awful, predatory vampire targeted them ages ago, and did things to them. Manhandled and mistreated them.

Thenvunin’s heart drops into his stomach at the thought.

Uthvir shakes their head a little.

“It’s fine,” they assure him. “I just didn’t see it coming, that’s all.”

Thenvunin decides to wait and let them make the next move anyway. It’s not a long wait – Uthvir shifts in his lap, and the chair they’re in creaks a little ominously; and then they kiss him again, winding their own arms around his shoulders, easily coaxing his lips apart. They rest a little more of their weight against his chest, and Thenvunin brings his hands up to help support them. His pulse quickens with the motion of their lips. The sweep of their tongue, and the way they press against him.

Oh, he  _really_  wants to keep them.

He hopes his mother won’t mind him dating a vampire.


	15. Melarue and Mirena

Mirena does not live in a big house, this time around. She lives in a small wheelchair accessible apartment, with her son, on the end of a crowded street.

Mirena. Their friend. Dearest friend. Soulmate. Who they promised Merrith they would look after, always.

Whom they thought was dead, before this. Dead forever, a memory they covet as they sit in their flower shop and arrange roses. But she is here, closing the door and heading down the stairwell, looking ahead.

Melarue steps back, closer to the bus stop overhang, out of sight, just as Mirena turns to glance in their direction.

They should go. They should leave right now. They’ve seen her, and she is fine. Of  _course_  she is fine. When Melarue had learned of Thenvunin’s existence from Selene, they’d texted Uthvir a single line.  **Is Mirena well?**

It had taken a week or so before a response had come.  **Yes.**

And still Melarue finds themselves here. Restless, they think, after doing what needed to be done with Dirthamen’s brother. But they really should go. There is no guarantee that any others will appear. Fate is cruel, and it has never been crueler to anyone than them.

 ** _Go now,_** Deceit agrees,  ** _Before we get attached again._**

And they do turn, to do just that, when a voice calls out. “Excuse me!”

They freeze, plaster a sure smile on their face and relax their shoulders, before turning around, “Yes?”

Mirena stands before them, in a white-trimmed coat. Fine make, likely something she sewed herself, but getting thin with use. They want to ask her so many things.  _Were your parents happy? Did they live well? Was your childhood kind? Is Nadas still alive? Do you remember anything?_  Instead they stand patiently and wait.

“Are you lost?” Mirena asks finally, glancing over at the bus stop.

“Ah,” Melarue clears their throat with an airy laugh. “I seem to have gotten off at the wrong stop. I am merely waiting for the next bus.”  _Please go. Please._

Mirena nods, and shifts her bag on her shoulder, and then waits. Waits for a bus because Thenvunin has taken their only vehicle to go to an appointment, and then to see Uthvir. Uthvir, who is with Thenvunin. Who will be together with him again, after all these years.

And if Fear can allow that, then Deceit, they think, needs to shut up and settle in for the long haul.

**_It does not mean you will find Nithroel, or Faunalyn, or Kassaran. This is a fluke. You will not get the same._ **

But Mirena is here. It is…it is a start, is it not? Can they not simply be happy with Mirena? Why must they always seek more?  _You will never be satisfied_ , Deceit had told them before they’d accepted its proposal. The truth, such an odd thing coming from such a spirit.

Their agreement, so long ago, had been hinged on Melarue’s survival. Deceit has twisted it to mean their emotional health as well, it seems. It is why it is constantly trying to keep them from getting attached. Or perhaps because it believes they will try and end their own life in the grief following the death of loved ones. Melarue has always wondered, but never cared to ask.

The end result is always the same, after all.

A bus finally pulls up to the stop, and Mirena glances at them once, to see if they are going to follow as she steps inside.

They do not, and watch as it pulls away, catching one last glimpse of Mirena’s confused frown, before they pull their coat tighter, and tug their scarf up to cover the bottom half of their face, and turn back down the road to where they left their rental car.

 _She is fine_ , they tell themselves.  _I am not needed here._

Deceit does not refute them, and they give a rueful smile as they open the car door and slip inside. Selene and Uthvir have their second chance. Melarue does not even entertain the idea that they will have similar luck.

They lean their forehead against the steering wheel and let out a slow, shuddering breath. It has been…it has been so long since they’ve cried. They won’t do it now, they  _won’t_.

 _Merrith is gone. You will never see him again. He will never know you. You did not speak at his wedding, or help him pick out a ring, or a house to start his family._ You  _do not_ get  _those things, Melarue._

_You don’t deserve them._

They jolt up at the sound of their phone vibrating on the dashboard, and blink back a wave of tears, ashamed at themselves for the weakness as they glance at the message flashing on their screen.

**Three requested individuals found. Two deceased. Information enclosed.**

They scroll through the document, heart hammering in their chest. Their vision blurs.  _I won’t cry_.

They do.

It takes them half an hour to pull themselves together enough to start the car.  

 

 


	16. Raising Pride

Selene and Dirthamen both take Pride to school for his first day of pre-k. 

They’re allowed to walk him up to the entrance of his classroom, and he clings to Selenes hand the whole way there. He’s nervous, his other hand fumbling with the long webbing strap hanging from his cartoon-wolf adorned backpack. It’s stuffed full with crayons and glue sticks and paper and anything else Pride was worried he’d need.

 

“You’re going to be wonderful,” Selene assures, bending down to give him a kiss on his forehead.

Dirthamen nods, and ruffles the dark hair atop his sons head with a smile “If you require us, your teacher has our cell numbers, and we will ensure they are turned on all day.”

 

Pride nods, with a slight sniffle before straightening his shoulders “Okay. And you’ll be here after?”

Selene nods as she stands “Yes. Your father and I will both be here to pick you up at the end of the day.”

 

Pride nods again, and steps into the classroom. Selene takes a deep breath and Dirthamen slips his hand into hers, gripping it tightly. They’re both nervous. The first day of school is always terrifying, but it’s nice to go through it together.

 

The drive back to the house is quiet, neither of them willing to give in to their unvoiced fears first. What if he gets picked on?

What if he doesn’t make any friends?

What if his magic manifests and his teacher has a bias?

What if  _he_  picks on others?

 

 _You’re being ridiculous. Pride will be fine._  Des supplies.

 

Selene pointedly ignores him, because nothing makes him more smug than when she tells him he’s right. Instead she finishes the drive back to the house. Eins tail wags hard enough to shake his whole behind as they walk inside, but he sniffs and makes a pointed whining noise when only the two of them enter.

“He’ll be home later,” Selene explains with a scratch behind his ears “Honestly, you’re worse than we are sometimes.”

 

Dirthamen lets out a quiet laugh at the remark as he removes his shoes.

The day drags on, Selene handling some overseas affairs in her office while Dirthamen types away at his latest first draft behind her.

Ein falls asleep on his pillow in the corner, and after an hour or two, Selene lets out a loud huff.

“It’s too quiet.”

“That is because we have become accustomed to having a small child bouncing around the house.”

“Pride is hardly much of a bouncer, unless Ein gets him riled up,” Selene points out.

Dirthamen raises a skeptical eyebrow and closes the lid of his laptop. “If you insist.”

 

Selenes fingers tap against her keyboard.

“Do you miss him?”

“Yes. But we are not permitted to stop in for visits. It could be disruptive to the other students.”

Selene smirks “Did you look that up?”

“I was emailing the principal about it, in fact. They were very clear on the schools stance on the matter. They assured me that our concerns are perfectly normal, however.”

 

Selene lets out a soft sigh and stands to join him on the couch. The two of them make adjustments, Dirthamens laptop ends up on the table and Selene ends up straddling his lap with her lips kissing a trail up the length of his neck.

 

“I suppose there are…benefits to having the house to ourselves,” Dirthamen murmurs between quiet gasps, his fingers trailing up and under Selenes shirt, tracing patterns over her skin.

 

Selene hums a quiet agreement, one hand slipping down to unbutton his pants while the other glides through his hair. They shift around until Dirthamen is reclined on his back with Selene over him, nipping gently at his ear.

 

“The condoms are in the bedroom…” he reminds her, even as he unzips her skirt and slides it down and off her legs to permit her a more comfortable position.

 

“We don’t need them,” Selene hums, unbuttoning his shirt while she nuzzles her face into his neck.

Dirthamen blinks, propping himself up on his elbows with a slightly furrowed brow. “Unless you want to get pregnant again, I believe we do.”

Selene raises an eyebrow at him in response, and he turns slightly red as realization dawns on him.

“You want another?” he inquires anyways.

 

Selene nods. It’s something she’s been thinking about for several months now. They’re in a good neighborhood for families already, neither of them have a pressing need to be somewhere else within the next few years, and with Pride in school now, he won’t be taking up quite so much of their day.

 

“I think it’s a good time for it,” she informs him.

“Are you going to say that each time one of our children goes off to school?”

Selene frowns “What do you mean?”

“You agreed we should have Pride only after Elanna left for college-”

“As I recall, you were the one pushing for that particular pregnancy,” Selene points out.

“Yes, and it was not a smooth one,” Dirthamen reminds her.

 

Selene sits up fully. “Try again, because that was very close to insulting.”

 

“My apologies,” Dirthamen amends “I meant only that you had a difficult time with your first pregnancy. I do not wish to put you into a situation that would be uncomfortable, again.”

“Well, I appreciate the concern,” Selene admits, hands trailing absently over his chest and casually unbuttoning his shirt “But I have been thinking about this for some time now. If you need time to consider it though, I understand. We can move to the bedroom if you’d prefer.”

 

Dirthamen considers his options, hands ghosting over Selenes bared thighs, before he flips the two of them over. Selene blinks, surprised at the sudden shift before he begins nipping at her neck. She lets out a loud groan, back arching up from the couch while Dirthamen drags her panties down and off her legs. He mumbles something about not needing more time, as he admits he had been considering the idea as well, but was unsure how to bring it up again. Their eyes lock as he pulls up, and his lips press against hers before they are lost in each other for the rest of the morning.

–

 

It is approximately three months later when Selene begins to feel queasy. Her favorite foods now smell too strongly, and her sheets are too scratchy and she can not seem to stop having to use the restroom every hour no matter how much she restricts her liquid intake.

Dirthamen picks up a test on his way to get Pride from school. He’s started to adjust to the new learning environment, and has even made a few friends already.

Dirthamen is very proud.

 

Selene takes the test, and bites down on her lower lip as she reads the results in her bathroom that evening.

Pregnant.

She’s pregnant.

 

She tells Dirthamen first. He’s thrilled, and they have their own private celebration that night. Selene schedules her first ultrasound for a day where Pride has a field trip, about 12 weeks in, and tries not to let her nerves show. Her husbands hands grips hers reassuringly as the technician moves the transducer over her stomach.

Twins.

It’s twins.

A pair of perfectly healthy twins.

 

Selene is practically in a daze as she steps back to the car.

 

The discussion with Pride that night goes more smoothly than they could have hoped for. He’s still excited from his schools visit to the petting zoo, and excited over the three of them going out for pizza for dinner. Selene hands him a slice of cheese and asks him if he’d like to be an older brother.

 

“I’m already an older brother,” he states.

 

Selene raises an eyebrow, but Pride just explains “We have Ein.”

 

Selene and Dirthamen both chuckle and smile at their son, and Selene explains the situation. That they will have two new babies in the house, and Pride will have two younger brothers soon. His eyes go wide, and he absorbs the new information, nodding along excitedly.   
He wants to help pick out the decorations for their room, and new games for the house and says he’ll teach them how to be nice to Ein and most of Selenes lingering worries melt away. 

They’re going to be ok. 

Everything is going to be fine.

–

Ana is similarly excited to learn of her new baby brothers. She offers to cut her trip short and come home to help with preparations (a college graduation gift from Selene and Dirthamen made up of a prepaid card for expenses, a passport, and a years worth of travel around Thedas) but Selene waves her off. Tells her to make the most of her trip, the babies aren’t going anywhere, and they’re still months off anyways.

 

The line of calls to be made continues once the first trimester has passed. Uthvir offers their congratulations, but is too preoccupied with their own child to muster up much time for a phone call. Melarue also offers their praise, and asks for the due date before they suddenly have to go take care of something they don’t give any details about. Selene rolls her eyes at the obvious dismissal, and calls Eda, who insists on coming to visit and help, and Selene agrees that a visit would be nice, but the dragon must stay at home. Eda pouts, but when Selene promises to take the children to visit when they’re old enough, she seems forgiven.

 

The next few months are a blur of sleepless nights and back pain and furniture assembly. Dirthamen ushers her out of freshly painted rooms and away from sushi and deli meats, and for the last few weeks Selene has to stay off of her feet because of the added weight and the swelling of her feet.

It leads to a lot of sulking on her end and fussing on Dirthamens. It does allot her plenty of time to read to Pride, and watch his favorite shows with him and play through an assortment of board games, though.

They’re about to eradicate the final virus in Pandemic one afternoon when Selenes water breaks.

 

Pride panics, and Selene calmly asks him to go get Ana from her room, while Dirthamen loads up their overnight bags and double checks that the car seats have been secured in the new van.

“Do you want me to drive?” she teases, and Dirthamen practically glares at her in response. 

But he takes a deep breath and helps her hobble into the passenger seat, on top of a towel while Selene instructs Ana to call if she has any problems, and please make sure Pride gets to school on time in the morning, and to give Ein plenty of time in the backyard before bed. Elanna nods along, waving her off and reminding her that she is an adult now, and she knows how to do all of these things and to please just focus on having her babies and to call when the two of them can come to the hospital as well.

 

Dirthamen is silently panicking as they pull into the parking lot and he helps Selene out of the car.

“It’s going to be fine,” she assures him, with a kiss on the cheek.

“I know that is the most likely outcome,” he agrees.

Selene sighs. “The babies are perfectly healthy, they’re facing the right direction, and this is right around when we were expecting to be due. Everything is running as smoothly as we could hope for.”

Dirthamen nods and carries the bags into the hospital, despite Selenes offer to carry her own.

The woman at the front desk is kind and soft-spoken, and explains that until Selene’s contractions pick up, they can’t give her a room. Dirthamen tries to argue the point, but Selene just shrugs and starts walking up and down the hallway. 

Well. 

Waddling, up and down the hallway, she supposes, with one hand on her lower back and the other above the swelling of her stomach.

 

 _I love the kids but I’m ready to have our body back_ , Des gripes.

 

 _You aren’t the one with heartburn radiating down to your kneecaps_ , Selene shoots back.

 

 _Touchy_.

 

Des quiets down suddenly after that, and when Selene turns she finds out why; Melarue and Uthvir have arrived.

 

“Welcome to the party,” She jokes.

Melarue offers her a quick hug, and asks why she hasn’t been given a room yet. Selene explains the situation, and Melarue tsks and runs off to find out how much longer it will be. Meanwhile, Uthvir finds a not-in-use wheelchair and drags it over for Selene to sit in.

“Walking is supposed to help induce labor,” Selene argues.

“And your doctor ordered you to stay off your feet to avoid back damage,” they retort.

 

Selene frowns and glances over Uthvirs head towards Dirthamen, who looks unashamed of his tattling and just offers her a not-at-all-repentant shrug. She plops down into the chair, and refuses to admit how much better she feels just sitting down, when Melarue turns the corner with a nurse in tow.

“Here we are then,” they announce “Right this way.”

 

Dirthamen takes the wheelchair from Uthvir, pushing Selene to their room and helping her into her gown while Melarue and Uthvir go to retrieve some ice chips.

 

Selene wishes she could say that she was as calm and composed throughout the rest of the process as she had planned on being, but the truth is that her head was swimming with all the ways things could go wrong. Something could happen to Pride and Elanna back at the house, or one of the twins could be tied up in their cord, or they could end up having to give her a Cesarean section. Anesthetic wouldn’t even work on her, would she have to pretend to not notice when they slice her open, and what if-

 _You’ve done this before_ , Des reminds her.  _This is just twice the fun, if anything._

 

_Your idea of fun has truly warped over the years, did you know that?_

 

_Oh hush. You’ve been waiting centuries to see them again, and you’re going to back out now? That’s not like you. You’re panicking over nothing. Your friends are here, Dirthamen is here, your children are safe, and you are about to expand our family again. Everything is fine. You **wanted** this._

 

Selene lets out a long breath, and turns her head to look at Dirthamen through the haze and the heat of her labor. He smiles, and squeezes her hand gently, reminding her that he is there beside her, and it eases a tightness in her chest. She can do this. She can do this.

She just has to get through the screaming.

 

–

She does get through the screaming, as it goes. A quick and clean delivery, on all accounts.

It doesn’t make Selene want to strangle the doctor any less when they go “See? Nice and easy.”

 

But they wash her children and hand them back to her. Their eyes are more green than they were the last time she saw them, and Felasels hair is all white right now, but she recognizes them all the same. 

They both do.

“Hello again,” she whispers. “I missed you."

 

~

 

Pride’s little brothers are twins, and they are babies, and they are  _very_  cute.

Their names are Felasel and Darevas. He tells his whole kindergarten class about them, when the teacher lets him talk about it for Show and Tell. Mama gives him a photo of the twins in their little knit caps, sleeping in their crib. It’s from when they were just born, and still  _very_  pink. They’re less pink now, though, and better at keeping their eyes open.

And they’re noisy.

They only know how to cry right now, though, so Papa says they’re noisy because they’re still learning how to communicate. Pride cried a lot when he was a baby, too, although he doesn’t remember that. Ein worries about it because it’s very hard to explain crying to a dog, and tends to sit outside of the nursery a lot.

When the twins are sleeping, though – and they sleep a lot – they’re very quiet. And so is everyone else. Mama says nap time is a good time for quiet activities, like reading, or drawing, or also napping. Pride doesn’t like to nap at the same time as the twins, though, so one morning he sneaks into the nursery while Mama and Papa and the twins are sleeping. Ein goes with him, and settles down next to the crib, while Pride stares through the slats at his baby brothers.

Felasel has hair like Mama’s. It’s even starting to curl at the edges. Darevas has dark hair, like Papa’s, but otherwise Pride thinks they look pretty much the same. Papa says they aren’t identical twins, though, because identical twins don’t have  _any_  differences. And most babies look alike.

Pride stares at his brothers a little longer, making extra sure to be quiet, before he finally settles down onto the nursery floor, and pulls out his sketchbook and takes his crayons out of his pocket. He starts out by drawing the crib, and Ein beside it. He’s used to drawing Ein, so that’s easy. And then he tries to draw his brothers, side by side and napping. The sun is outside of the window, so Pride includes that, too, and he tries to get Felasel’s hair right but just like with Mama, he finds himself frustrated that his crayons are never the right shade for it.

He makes do with the yellow, though, pressing very lightly except at the edges. After a minute Ein comes over and snuffles his hair, and then tries to sneak one of his crayons away. Pride objects, reflexively, letting out a firm ‘no’ and then smacking his hand over his mouth as he realizes his mistake. The twins move a little; scrunching up their faces. Darevas’ tiny mouth starts to work, like he’s eating invisible pudding. Pride holds his breath.

But after a minute, they don’t wake up, and he lets it back out again.

The door to the nursery opens again, and he glances over and sees Ana looking in.

She raises a finger to her lips, and then gestures for him to come over. Pride picks up his drawing and all of his crayons, counting to be sure he doesn’t miss any, and then quietly heads over. Ana urges him and Ein back out of the nursery, and then down the hall, and away from the ajar door to his parents’ room, too.

“What are you up to?” she asks, quietly, once they get to the kitchen.

Pride shows her his drawing.

“I was drawing the twins,” he whispers back. “Mama said I could draw while they were napping. I was being extra careful! But then Ein tried to eat one of my crayons.”

He gives his usual partner-in-crime a disappointed look, which goes mostly ignored.

“Ohhh,” Ana says. She ruffles his hair a little, and then takes his drawing to look at. “It’s very good! You got their little legs just perfect.”

Pride beams.

“Let’s put it on the fridge,” Ana suggests. “And then we should probably have a snack. Do you want apple slices or carrot sticks?”

Pride thinks about it while Ana opens up the drawer and fishes out a fresh magnet, and sticks his drawing of the twin up next to the one he did a few days ago, of the wolf pack he saw on the television documentary that Papa watched with him.

“I want apple slices,” he decides. “Can we have caramel sauce with them?”

Ana gives him a look.

“We can have  _yogurt_  with them,” she tells him. “Or cheese. Pick your poison.”

Pride sighs. Sometimes Ana lets him get away with having candy, but it’s starting to seem like all of the adults are conspiring to make sure he doesn’t sneak any extra sweets outside of dessert, and his cookies at lunch time. He picks cheese, with a long-suffering air, and Ana gives him his favourite kind of juice which makes up for the disappointment a little. He wonders if the twins will like candy and sweets, once they can start having Big Kid Food. Pride hopes so, then he can show them what all the best snacks are, and they can help him convince Mama and Papa that ice-cream on pancakes is a good everyday breakfast.

Ana settles down next to him, with some fresh berries with her apple slices, and pulls out her phone.

“Wanna see some more pictures from my trip?” she offers. “I don’t think I’ve shown you the ones from the Museum of Antiquity in Nevarra yet.”

“You went to  _more_  museums?!” Pride asks. He can’t wait until  _he’s_  big enough to take a whole trip across Thedas, and see all the places. Ana nods, and grins, and then shows him some pictures of a big, beautiful building that’s full of lots of spooky stuff. And vases. And mummies.

Ana shows him all the drawings that were done on one of the big fancy coffins, and Pride wonders if, one day, any of  _his_  pictures will end up in museums. He thinks that seems kind of funny, because he can’t imagine somebody talking about him all fancy, like ‘way back a hundred tons of years ago, there was an elf named Pride, and he made all these beautiful pictures but we think aliens helped him’. There was a whole show about that one the other day, with an Orlesian history man who was pretty sure that aliens helped the ancient elves make Arlathan. Mama said he was so full of hot air that it was amazing that he didn’t float away, like a big balloon, and go meet his aliens himself.

It was funny. Papa explained how blimps worked to Pride, after that, and that was almost as interesting as aliens.

“Do you think the twins will like museums?” he wonders. Lots of kids don’t.

Ana shrugs.

“I don’t know! I guess we’ll have to wait and find out. Although considering what a giant pack of nerds everyone in this family is, I’d say there are good odds on it.”

Pride giggles. Ana doesn’t mean it the mean way when she says they’re all nerds. She smiles at him, and then reaches over and bops his nose.

“Finish your apple slices, and I’ll show you one of the videos I took of the exhibits,” she promises.

Pride promptly shoves the rest of his snack into his face, and grins.

 

~

 

It is after Pride is born that Dirthamen starts writing letters to himself.

He has been taking note of things, of course. Keeping the usual mementos of a life well lived. But this is different.

The thought comes to him one long evening, when Pride is in the midst of teething, and is therefore troubled by pain and discomfort. He is allergic to most numbing gels, their doctor finds, and so the process is doubly uncomfortable for him, and is best eased by having either Dirthamen or Selene use cooling spells on his gums, while he chews on his teething rings. Or cold sticks of sweet, mild pepperoni.

Pride’s cries have a way of wrenching at Dirthamen’s heart, particularly when he cannot find an immediate solution to whatever crisis has assailed his tiny son. Selene is no different, though she is, in this, more experienced.

Thoughts along those lines are what guide Dirthamen to his current train of thought.

A lifetime ago, they had children together. Children who, by Selene’s accounts, grew and flourished, and lived and died. Children who Dirthamen cannot recollect. That is something that has always bothered him. But it bothers him more after Pride is born. Logically, he thinks, someday he will die, and he will forget Pride. He will forget Selene, again. He will forget all the wondrous details of his life – the surprises and discoveries, the revelations and affections.

It strikes him cold with fear, to think that he will forget about his son. To think that he has  _already_  forgotten about  _other_  children, that he cannot remember holding, or soothing, or raising.

He does not want to forget.

But he does not think becoming an abomination is the answer for him. He is not like Selene, who is good and strong, and he does not think he could find a spirit like Des, who might suit him so well. He does not think the parts of his nature that would appeal to spirits would result in a… good combination.

There are videos. Uthvir has most of them, it seems, hoarded away, but they have rationed a few out to Dirthamen. Selene prefers to keep pictures. Old photographs and records, and Dirthamen thinks of her, too. Thinks of what it would be like, to wait for years and years between seeing her again. To watch her grow old, and die, and leave him, and then wait, and wonder if she would love him again when she came back.

And he thinks of what is missed, in photographs and videos. What these things cannot say.

The first night, he settles into his desk with Pride napping in his lap. He is getting better at holding a baby with one hand and doing all manner of things with the other. Selene is sleeping, exhausted for her own part, and the house is quiet as Pride drowses with his teething ring still in his mouth, and Dirthamen picks up a pen, and begins to write.

 _Dear Dirthamen,_  he puts down.

_This is a letter from you to yourself. Or rather, from a past incarnation of yourself to a future one. I hope Selene has informed you of the particulars of our situation. If she has not, now may be a good time to inquire after such things. And if you have not met Selene, but you have somehow come into possession of this letter, then you should speak with whoever gave it to you._

_I am writing this letter so that you will know about the things which you cannot remember, but which I do not wish to forget._

Dirthamen hesitates, and wonders where to start. He glances down at his son’s sleepy face, and the drool on his shirt. The room is warm. Outside, it is windy.

He puts his pen back to the page.

_As I write this, our son, Pride, is four months old. He is teething right now, which distresses him greatly. But he is a very patient and cheerful baby, I think. I have not had very many points for comparison, but he smiles often, and his laughter is infectious. His favourite toys are his soft blocks, with elvhen letters on them, and his plush wolf, and our family’s dog, Ein…_

Once he gets going, Dirthamen finds it is not difficult to list things which he wishes to recall about Pride. And then, from there, it is easy to go on about Selene, and Ana, and Ein as well. Lists of pertinent traits branch out into anecdotes about them. By the time Dirthamen runs out of paper at his desk, Pride is fully asleep, and his hand is cramped, and he has written far more than he expected to.

He will need some notebooks, he supposes. Physical copies, and digital ones, too.

And, he thinks, he should probably take more care in when he writes, and how long for. Straightening up makes him vibrantly aware of how inadvisable it is to lean over a desk for more than an hour with an infant in one arm, craned at odd angles and scrawling away.

But it is a good idea, he thinks.

He goes and puts Pride in his crib, and when the next comes, he takes a brief trip out to pick up more disposable wipes and a six pack of notebooks.

Selene does not really question his new interest. Not at first. When he can spare the time to, Dirthamen adds to his ‘letter’. He finds there are always more things he can think of. The sound of Ein’s ‘hello’ bark. The way Pride likes to separate his froot loops by colour before he eats them. Ana’s triumphant dance whenever she wins at competitive video games. Selene’s inability to walk into a bookstore and not come back out empty-handed.

And there are other, more intimate things which Dirthamen wishes to recollect, too. Sexual things, and interludes, and encounters. But also things like what to do when Selene is sad. How to help with her grief, or tell when she needs space, or the comfort of someone who is not himself. What kinds of foods she likes, and books, and music. How to tell when Des is ‘piloting’, so to speak, and what to expect from that. What the different colours in her fire mean, and the things she prefers to leave unsaid, and the things she needs most often to hear.

He has gone through several packs of notebooks before Selene reads any of them.

Pride is toddling, by then. Navigating the sides of furniture with fixed intent, and a determination that makes Dirthamen think he will be climbing mountains one day. Watching him make his attempts is fascinating, and Dirthamen is utterly distracted by Pride’s tour around the sitting room’s padded coffee table when Selene comes into the room, holding one of his notebooks.

“I found this one in our room,” she says. “This is some project of yours, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Dirthamen confirms.

Selene stares at the cover.

“Can I look?” she asks, in a way that makes him think she has been wanting to ask – and refraining – for some time.

He considers the matter. Someday, if things go the way they seem set to, he will die. And Selene will have these notebooks, and copies of them, and will be obliged, he hopes, to show them to his future self. But before he is reborn and grown again, she will have to wait. For years, at the least. Potentially, it would be very cruel to leave her with words he had written, and instructions not to read them herself. Dirthamen does not know if he could manage the restraint for that, in the reverse situation. He would likely break his word, and then feel guilty for it.

He would not wish that on Selene.

And besides which, he supposes she has some right to know what he is conveying about her.

“You may,” he decides.

“Oo bay,” Pride babbles, intently, to the coffee table.

Selene smiles at him as she heads over, and then settles onto one of the couches. Ein is currently in the yard, waiting for Ana to come home, as is usual around this hour.

Pride makes his way around the coffee table, and babbles at Dirthamen some more before giving up his current trek in favour of clambering into his lap. Selene opens up the journal, and reads the first page. And then she blinks, and flips it shut again, and raises an eyebrow at him.

“Are you writing  _porn?”_  she asks.

Ah.

Dirthamen recalls what he had been putting in that notebook, now.

“Somewhat,” he admits. “Mostly I have just been writing…” he hesitates. “…Everything?”

Selene frowns a little, and opens the notebook again. She flips through several more pages, silently reading, as Dirthamen plays with Pride. After a while she gets back up, then, and heads into the study, and when she returns she has several more notebooks. She glances towards him, as if double-checking her permission.

Dirthamen inclines his head, and then points towards the orange one, which he rewrote his first draft of his letter in.

“Start there,” he recommends.

Selene does.

And then Pride demands most of his attention again, seeking his help in organizing his blocks. Dirthamen obliges him, and after a half hour has passed, he scoops him up and feeds him his lunch, too. He puts together a few sandwiches, and Pride ‘helps’ bring them to Selene, but when they get into the sitting room, she is gone.

“Ma?” Pride wonders.

“Bathroom, perhaps?” Dirthamen suggests.

His son decides that they must find her, and so they set out. Dirthamen is rather hoping that Pride will not be one of those toddlers who insists upon following his parents to the bathroom at all times, but he is also somewhat certain that this is a vain hope. He is very inquisitive, and he dislikes being alone.

Selene is not in the bathroom, however. Their search eventually uncovers her in the bedroom. Sitting on their bed, with her face in her hands.

“Ma!” Pride calls.

Dirthamen approaches with him, cautiously. Is it Des, perhaps?

But when they get close, he sees the red rims of Selene’s eyes, and he does not think so. She looks at them both, and then she reaches out her arms. Dirthamen deposits Pride readily into them, before settling onto the mattress beside her. Their son pats at his mother’s cheeks, frowning worriedly until she manages a smile for him, and then kisses his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just… I needed a moment.”

“I apologize, I did not mean to cause distress,” Dirthamen offers, wondering if he has committed some grievous – if unwitting – transgression. But Selene only shakes her head, and cuddles Pride; and then leans over, and rests herself against his shoulder.

She closes her eyes.

“I wish I could give your memories back to you,” she tells him. “I wish you could… you could remember them, too.”

Dirthamen watches as she holds Pride closer, and he knows she is thinking of their other sons. The twins. Felasel and Darevas.

Gently, he works his arm around her. And he pulls her to him, holding her and Pride, full of unspoken grief for things he should not even know about. For pains that most people are not meant to live with; and for all of that, he knows that for him, much of it is only a concept. But for Selene, is the reality of a very heavy grief.

They stay like that until Ana comes home.

And then life, as it must do, reasserts itself. No less pressing for all that has come before.

Dirthamen notes it down, too. Because his future self must know, also, that for all the knowledge he can attain, all the memories he has lost still live with Selene.

And that is a double-edged blade which cuts her deeply, at times.


	17. Varawell

Something isn’t right.

Vara narrows his eyes at his reflection, and then turns his head to the side.

It’s the shade, he concludes. It’s too brown, and not red enough. He wanted to try his mother’s shade of hair for a change. It’s a rare color, not easily replicated.

He tries again.

….No.

It’s still wrong. Perhaps he needs a reference, but cameras distort colors, and no photograph can compare to seeing it with his own eyes. The shade shifts, changing to what he remembers his Papae’s hair color to be.

It’s off, somehow.

How?

Varawell remembers the color, he had worn it for years before now. It looks wrong to him though and he can’t figure out why. He changes the shade once more, trying to ignore the bud of doubt that has settled in the pit of his stomach.

He can’t have  _forgotten_.

Surely.

Vara’s memory isn’t photographic like Rissa’s had been but  _surely_  he can remember the shade of his parent’s hair. The bud grows and his breathing quickens as he sees the flecks of gold on his skin vanish in his reflection, and he’s left staring at himself.

Dark hair instead of white, brown eyes instead of blue, and a soft dusting of freckles along the bridge of his nose.

It has been a long time since he left his hair natural. Running his fingers through it, thick and dark just like his Babae’s was. He blinks, changing his eyes to the ruby red of his Papae’s.

His skin, he thinks, can stay spotted.


	18. Screecher

It always the hardest, when Husband dies.

Screecher watches, every time. Husband’s hair gets lighter, and his skin get more wrinkled. He gets slower. Like when he is younger, almost, but it is a different kind of slow. A different kind of struggle. It is harder for Husband to look after himself, and his voice gets soft and creaky, and does not call for Screecher so well.

The first time Screecher remembers Husband dying, they had panicked. They had nearly died, too, but Small Red had not let them. Small Red had been old then, too. That was back when Small Red still aged like Husband did.

Still died, like Husband did. Like the hatchlings did.

Those had been dark days.

And even now, when Small Red stays like Screecher, and so does Speckled Hatchling, when Husband dies it is always the hardest.

Screecher knows it is coming again, soon. The day when Husband will stop moving, and the waiting will begin again. The lonely days, and then the searching, and the wondering if this will be the time when Husband does  _not_  come back. Screecher is most afraid for that time. They try not to think of it, because of course, Husband will always come back for Screecher. They spend lots of time with him now, though, because they know they will not get another chance for many years. Husband still pets their feathers and gives them treats, and Screecher fixes his hair for him, and brings him shinies and treasures.

Many times, now, Husband has died.

Small Red, when they are there, never takes it well. But when they become like Screecher, they take it the  _worst._  When Husband’s breaths stop, Screecher is there. And Small Red is there, and the hatchlings are there. The mourning sounds are heavy, and Screecher wants to scream. But first Husband must be seen to, Husband’s plumage must be put in order, because he does not like to be disorderly. He must look nice, for when he goes to the burrow under the tree, to sleep until he is born again.

Small Red is still, and silent, and holds the Hatchlings while they cry. They look old, but Screecher can tell it is only for looks. Speckled Hatchling comes much later and takes Screecher away, after all but Small Red have left, too. Screecher does not want to go, but they know this routine, by now. Speckled Hatchling is crying, crying, all sad eyes and misery, and Screecher straightens her plumage for her, and does not mind the wet she gets on their feathers.

When they settle into their nest for the night, they make the mourning calls. They call for Husband, even though they know he will not come. But they cannot help it. No matter how many times this happens, it is always hard, and part of them always expects Husband to wake up again. To come into the garden again, because Screecher is calling for him.

It takes time, because they are mourning, for them to realize that Small Red is not coming to find Screecher.

That is odd.

Normally when Husband dies, Small Red comes to Screecher. Because they both miss Husband, and because Small Red needs to make sure that Screecher is eating. But it is one of the Hatchlings-of-Hatchlings who fills Screecher’s food station, and it is Oldest who sits in the garden with Screecher, and Small Red does not come out of the big house, not even to go to the noisy car-beast and make drivings. The hatchlings go inside, and Screecher is supposing they are feeding Small Red, too, because Small Red is not leaving to go hunting. But there is not much reason for that, because Small Red is like Screecher, now. They are not really old and feeble, like Husband had been. Small Red only stops going places when they cannot anymore.

In the nighttime, when Screecher at last stops calling for Husband, they fly up to the see-in points of the big building. They go to the window of Husband’s sleeping place, and they are not surprised when they see Small Red there. Sitting in Husband’s chair, with their own plumage in disarray, with misery all filling them up. They are not wearing their old person look anymore, and they are holding some of Husband’s things.

Screecher tap-bats against the window.

It takes Small Red a very long time to open up.

“He’s not here,” they say, when they finally do.

Yes, Screecher knows that. Screecher nips Small Red for thinking they are forgetting such important things, and then looks at them with proper seeing for a moment. Small Red is all sad and afeared. Husband is gone, so this makes sense, but it makes Screecher remember the very first time Husband died. When it had been so hard to think about going on. Small Red had come to them, then, and made them do it. Because someday Husband would be back, and he would need his Screecher.

Husband does not need Small Red  _as much,_  but Screecher  _supposes_  that he will still like to have them, too. He will be looking for them otherwise. They are much better than some of the  _other_  interlopers who try to steal Husband’s time, and act on presumptions of touching him. Screecher has never had to be clawing Small Red’s eyes for hurting Husband, after all. And Small Red has never broken Screecher’s wings or legs or been stabbing them, either.

They have an  _accord._

For Husband’s sake.

So Screecher waits until Small Red is slumping into Husband’s chair again, and then they muster themselves up, and set about grooming Small Red’s inferior plumage. After a while Small Red starts on leaking, but they do not try and stop Screecher. They fold all in on themselves, and sag, and sag, and after a while they start calling for Husband, too.

That is hard, because Husband cannot answer Small Red anymore than he could answer Screecher. He is sleeping in the tree burrow, now. And it takes a long time for him to finish that resting. Years and years.

Small Red calls for Husband until they are all soaked and tired and shaking, and Screecher has finished their groomings, and it is well past time for sleeping. Then there is a crunchings from outside, of heavy things on the front ways, and Small Red is not making much of themselves apart from putting on their age-look again before Oldest Hatchling comes and finds them.

Oldest Hatchling is showing many signs of age, now, too. She has flown away from the nest, but she always comes back. Screecher moves as she goes to be holding Small Red, and offers comfort.

“ _Nanae_ ,” she says.

“It’s alright, I’m alright,” Small Red insists, but their words are all askewed of their feelings.

Oldest Hatchling does not fall for it. She gets Screecher’s evil travel cage, and Screecher does not mind so much getting into it tonight. And then she gets Small Red and Screecher into her noisy car-beast, and takes them away from Best Nest, and the garden, and the room where Husband slept. Screecher can see her shiny hand on the car-beast wheel through the gap in the evil travel cage coverings.

It will be hard for Small Red again, Screecher knows, when Oldest dies. Small Red has never seen that before.

Screecher has.

Screecher has seen them all die. Again and again and again.

They feel heavy with sorrows, as Oldest takes them and Small Red into her own sleeping place, with its smaller garden and rude wolf-beast, and her mate, who takes Screecher’s cage and offers them food and freshes their water. Oldest’s mate is good for that sort of thing, they suppose, even though he leaves Screecher in the room with the rude wolf-beast, who snuffles at the evil travel cage and makes ridiculous dog-cries.

What does rude wolf-beast have to cry over? Screecher’s Husband is dead again, if anyone has business making sad noises, it is  _them._

Eventually, though, Oldest’s mate covers the evil travel cage for nighttime, and Screecher does not have much to do except for sleeping.

They can feel it, though. In the other place, the Place of Sleeping, especially. Husband is dead, but there are all the lines that got made, between Husband and Screecher, and Hatchlings, and even Small Red. And more, including of those who did not come this time around, or who have already died, who were there before and loved Husband before, and were loved by him. The whole flock, born and unborn and dead and living.

It is a nest of its own. Screecher cannot always see it. But when they do, it is comforting. Best Nest is the nest they build in the world of waking things and gardens, but deep down, they know it is really only  _second_  Best Nest.

But that is okay, because Screecher built this other nest, too. And if Small Red is going to be like them, then sooner or later, they will find Bestest Nest.

Then, Screecher thinks, they will feel better.

Even though Husband is gone, he is always part of Bestest Nest.

They all are.

Screecher made sure.


	19. Uthvir and Kel

Uthvir is holding Kel again.

They never thought they ever would.

But they are. They are looking at her, their daughter. She is a baby again; just a tiny little baby. No memories, of an entire life she led. Probably not even very many memories of the new one that would have ended, if not for Selene’s intervention. Fear is running high just thinking about it, and Uthvir drives like a snail all the way back to their home, making frequent stops and fussing over their daughter. Holding her and feeding her, changing her at rest stops, and running their thumb over the fingers of her little left hand.

She looks just like they remember. Just like she does in old photographs, and it reminds them of when they had first gotten her. Snatching her up from an uncertain future.

They wonder what happened to her biological parents  _this_  time around.

They almost find it difficult to care, though. She’s here. She’s  _back,_ and she is with them again. Kelvallastheneras.

They take her home. Home to the house that Thenvunin once grew up in, the sparse and somewhat eccentric manor, that has a decided lack of cribs and toys and changing tables and other things that babies need. Uthvir knows they have to get everything, that they have to  _do_  things, but Kel is in their arms and they can’t really bring themselves to put her down, not even when she’s sleeping. Some part of them is irrationally terrified that if they look away, even for a few seconds, they’ll look back and find her gone again.

They end up settling into one of the sitting room chairs, as she sleeps against their shoulder. Just listening, for a few minutes, to the creaking of the house, and the sounds of her breathing.

Their phone buzzes.

Uthvir carefully reaches into their pocket, and pulls it out, moving smoothly enough that Kel doesn’t wake. One of her fists is curled into their collar, and her cheek is smushed against their shoulder. They can’t say that they’d  _forgotten_  how cute she was at this age, but they’re filled with a kind of awe-struck reverence at the reality of experiencing it again. Though it strikes them, too, that she… she really  _doesn’t remember._  A whole lifetime where she grew and flourished and… and…

They tamp down on that thought before it can get too far. There isn’t anything for it, and besides, she can grow up again, now. She can live again, now.

They blink at their phone.

Six missed messages from Selene, and one from Thenvunin.

Thenvunin.

Uthvir’s mind stalls again.

Thenvunin is Kel’s father. And he doesn’t even know it. They’ve only tentatively, sort of started dating, and Uthvir is still adjusting to having  _him_  back, to all the differences in that, and… what if Thenvunin doesn’t want her this time? Or at least, doesn’t want to be a parent this time. They can’t really imagine Thenvunin not wanting Kel. But he’s so young… not that he’s actually younger than he was the first time they adopted her, though. Still.

Still.

Uthvir checks Selene’s messages first.

They’re all fairly standard, just making sure that Uthvir is alright and functional and hasn’t dragged their baby off to a bunker somewhere in Orlais (joke’s on her, their best bunker isn’t anywhere  _near_  Orlais). With one hand still resting carefully on Kel’s back, they text a brief reply.

_We’re fine._

Although, they suppose, they actually could use an extra pair of hands. Then they could get things that Kel needs without having to do anything insane, like put her down. They could always shapeshift a second set, but that would take a lot of concentration, and energy. And since they don’t imagine they’ll be sleeping any time soon, they should probably ration that kind of thing a little more wisely. What if they blacked out and fell over and  _dropped her?_

They’d never forgive themselves.

Their gaze flits down towards Thenvunin’s number.

…He took it remarkably well the first time, they remind themselves.

Kel makes a tiny noise, and Uthvir drops their phone in their haste to check on her. Their heart jumps up into their throat, and they’re pretty sure that she can pick up on their irrational distress, because a minute later her little face is scrunching up and she’s launching into a volley of tears. Uthvir gently shushes her and soothes her, and gathers her up to go and get the last of the formula they brought with them, to see if she’s hungry. She’s not wet, at least.

They’re in the midst of one-handedly rifling through the bag Selene gave them when the door chime goes off.

 _Police, here to take the baby!_  Fear hisses.

Uthvir sweeps up the bag and clutches Kel close, and gets halfway to the garden door, already planning to fly out over the back wall before their better judgement catches up with them. Fear’s supposition is based entirely on paranoia. The wards haven’t gone off; and Uthvir doubts that Arlathan’s current law enforcement regime would be so polite as to ring the bell, given their track record on elven ‘fugitives’ of late.

They make themselves take a deep breath, and reconsider.

Given how many messages she sent, it’s possible Selene decided to follow them, once she had regained something of her own equilibrium. Or Melarue could have somehow divined the situation. Uthvir has no idea how they  _would,_  but they would not put it past them. Nor would they put it past them to simply appear on their doorstep.

They look at Kel. Who is still slightly watery-eyed, but is no longer crying. She chews on one of her little fists.

They ease it, gently, away from her mouth.

They are alarming her. Because they are acting as if there is something to be alarmed about.

“It’s alright, baby,” they soothe, taking a deep breath, and letting it out again.

They can answer the door, they think. If it is something dangerous, then they will have a split second to activate the manor’s defensive sigils and flee, but they can do it. They hold Kel close as they make their way through to the front hall. There used to be a camera system set up, and they had been loathe to do away with it. But housing regulations in the district had changed to make them illegal, and Uthvir had not yet found a replacement system that was discreet enough to avoid scrutiny. The law, they know, is mostly just an excuse to allow enforcers with the Magisterium’s interests in mind to barge into the homes of affluent elves, and further subvert their power in the city.

They open the door, bracing themselves.

Thenvunin blinks up at them from the seat of his wheelchair.

“Uthvir?” he asks.

“Pa?” Kel says, babbling, and Uthvir  _knows_  that it is just baby-babble, that she has learned that word and probably associates it with men, but for an instant everything just  _stops_  again. Because they are holding their daughter, and their daughter said  _Pa,_  and there is Thenvunin. Here is Kel.

Here is  _their family._

For a single moment, time is irrelevant. It doesn’t matter how many years it’s been. It doesn’t matter, that so many minute things have changed. Thenvunin looks at Kel, eyes wide, and Kel looks back at him, holding onto Uthvir’s collar and shoving her little fist back up towards her mouth, and Uthvir wants it all again. Wants their babies. Wants their husband.

Wants what they had been so sure was lost forever.

“Hello there,” Thenvunin says, softly. The moment breaks, just a little, as he looks at Uthvir. “Who’s this?” he asks.

Uthvir swallows, and has trouble finding the words.

“This is my baby,” they manage.

Thenvunin’s eyebrows shoot up.

Right.

Yes.

Because Uthvir has been dating him for a few weeks now, and has known him for a few months, and has never mentioned a child, or obviously been pregnant… not that Kel is a newborn, precisely, so even if they  _had_  been that wouldn’t… work…

They clear their throat.

“My cousin,” they say. “My cousin died. I adopted Kel. Kelvallastheneras. That’s the name her father gave her. I’m sorry, it… happened quickly.”

Thenvunin’s expression shifts again, processing. The last time, Uthvir had known and dated Thenvunin all through college. They’d been together for a significant period of time before Kel had come into the proceedings. They don’t supposed he’ll react the same way. Their heart feels like it’s hammering between their ears, as they wait for a response…

“That must have been quite a shock,” Thenvunin ventures, looking rather intently at their daughter. Another awkward moment passes, before he shifts a little in his chair. “May I hold her…?”

Uthvir freezes for a moment in baffling indecision.

Thenvunin immediately backpedals.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “That was probably a little inappropriate. I suppose we have some things to discuss, and I wouldn’t presume-“

Uthvir moves, quickly, and before he can finish retracting his offer, they deposit Kel into his lap. Settling her into familiar arms, that she doesn’t actually know yet. Into a scene that’s so like and unlike one from their memories. Two inches to the left of their recollection, but right now, that doesn’t bother them. It  _can’t._

Thenvunin blinks.

Kel does, too.

Thenvunin’s steady hands hold her in his lap, as she chews on one of her fingers. After a moment, though, she moves her hands from her mouth, and reaches for Thenvunin’s hair instead.

Wisely, he catches her little fists, first, and stops them from reaching their target.

“Wuh?” Kel says, as if surprising by the sheer size of the gentle hands enfolding her own.

Thenvunin smiles. Big, and bright, and once again – thoroughly charmed. It makes Uthvir wonder if some part of him  _does_  remember.

And then they think of the first time they had Kel. The first time they recall Thenvunin holding her; the first time they had felt that surprising rush of near-panicked parental concern for her, seeing that little orphan and feeling so immediately compelled to claim her.

And they wonder if there are more lifetimes which even  _they_  have forgotten. Lives where they were together before, too.

“What a beautiful baby,” Thenvunin says.

“Ada ga,” Kel replies.

Fear unclenches its grip around Uthvir’s heart. Just a little.

“We had better go back inside,” they reason.

 

~

 

Kel asks the question when she is six, for the second time they’ve had her, blinking up at the television set and the cheesy commercial blaring across the screen. Thenvunin is just down the hall, finishing up folding the spring linens for their bed; and Uthvir is, themselves, putting several freshly dried towels into the hall closet, just beside the bathroom.

“Nanae,” Kel says. “What’s the fastest way to someone’s heart?”

“Between the ribs at an upward angle, generally,” Uthvir answers, without really thinking about it.

They pause, and mentally rewind the conversation as they hear Thenvunin gasp.

…Oh.

Whoops.

Kel just nods sagely, however, and then turns back towards the television.

“Flowers wouldn’t be sharp enough,” she muses.

Thenvunin wheels his way out of the laundry, and levels Uthvir with a  _look;_ the sort which they can only respond to with an unrepentant smirk. He pulls the linens out of his lap, and deposits them rather firmly into Uthvir’s arms, before heading into the sitting room.

“Nanae was  _joking,_  Nobody wants to literally get at anyone’s heart, da’vhenan, it’s metaphorical,” he insists, standing up so he can move over to the couch. It’s been a long day for him. Spring cleaning, and despite the fact that Uthvir is barely showing their pregnancy and hardly suffering from the worst of it yet, Thenvunin had been adamant that they not lift anything heavy or ‘strain themselves too much’. Which, of course, meant that  _he_  ended up overdoing it himself.

“Da’vhenan means ‘little heart’,” Kel notes, moving over to pat at Thenvunin’s thighs as he settles in beside her. One, two. The same way Thenvunin brushes gentle touches over her bruises and bumps whenever she gets any. It earns her a smile and a kiss to the top of her head, and then Thenvunin lets out a sigh that betrays just how tired he is.

“It does,” he says. “When someone calls you ‘vhenan’, you know you’ve worked your way into their heart.”

Uthvir finishes putting the rest of the linens away, and quietly makes their own way over. Pausing to lean against the wall.

“You call Nanae ‘vhenan’,” Kel notes, contemplatively. “Nanae calls me ‘baby’, though. An’ they call you ‘babe’.”

“They use the other words sometimes, too. But they mean the same thing. They’re just being  _eccentric,”_ Thenvunin assures her.

Kel glances at them over the back of the couch. 

They offer her a reassuring nod of agreement, and apparently that’s all she needs to confirm her papae’s statement. She settles back down, and the conversation reaches a halt as her show comes back on. Uthvir goes to get started on dinner, resolving to make something quick and healthy, and easy to eat. Maybe they’ll run Thenvunin a bath after dinner, and get started on mitigating the inevitable aches. He’ll take one if they climb in with him. Mirena should be back from work by then, so there’ll be an extra pair of eyes to watch Kel.

A half an hour later, they’re pulling a tray of fish out of the oven when Kel scoots into the kitchen.

“Nanae,” she says. “Do you always need a bird?”

Uthvir pauses, and tries to find the potential context for that question.

They come up blank.

“For what?”

“For finding your heart,” Kel explains. “Papae said he followed a bird to you. Is it always a bird? There was a cartoon where a prince did the same thing, but I thought it was make-believe.”

Ah.

“The bird was Screecher,” they explain, carefully shutting the oven and moving the hot pan out of reach of little hands. Then they consider. “There’s a chance Screecher might also lead you to your heart, but it’s not mandatory. How you find someone is usually less important than how much you like them, when it comes to these things.”

There are decent odds that Kel’s heart is over at Selene and Dirthamen’s, right now, and probably drawing on the walls again.

But Uthvir’s not going to presume. 

“How does Screecher know?” Kel wonders, clambering up onto one of the bar stools. They keep one eye on her, but she manages without any trouble.

“They’re a decent matchmaker. It’s their one redeeming quality,” they drawl. 

Their daughter, accustomed to such jokes, sticks her tongue out at them.

They feel a rush of warmth, and offer her a smile, before turning back towards the stove.

Wherever she finds her heart, they are in no hurry to see her set out for the journey again.


	20. Finding Aelynthi

Fereldan is cold.

A snowstorm has hit, and Melarue barely makes it into Highever before the airport closes down. The taxi ride is slow going, and throughout the entirety of it Melarue reminds themselves to breathe. But the closer they are to their goal, the tighter their chest seems to constrict.

The hospital lights are soft, pale dots in the swirling snow-laden wind, as Melarue walks up the steps and through the automatic doors into a nearly deserted lobby. A few nurses pause in their duties, but upon seeing that they look unharmed, continue onward, as Melarue heads toward the front desk.

Deceit has been leading them since the news, a guiding hand, making certain all their information is in order, all the details and pitfalls accounted for, and Melarue lets it because they cannot think, not when they are still grieving, not when they know who is in this hospital even now.

Their son.  _Their son_.

They stop at the desk. “I am here to see my son. Aelynthi Elvhen.”

The nurse behind the desk nods, and types something into their computer, and each tap of the keys seems an eternity. Melarue wants to reach over and shake him, and curls their hands into fists in their pocket to keep from doing so.

“May I see your identification?”

They hand over the card, and the nurse looks it over, then back at the files on the computer, before giving a small nod and handing it back. “I’ll just need you to sign in here,” The nurse holds out a sheet, and Melarue quickly writes their signature; they are surprised their hand is so steady.

Inside they are a mess. All they want to do is see their son. They  _need_  to see him. It’s been building, the tension and the grief and the fear, ever since they’d read that message. They just… _they need to see him._

A row of the overhead lights flicker, and they breathe in deeply, trying to calm down. Deceit is still not convinced this is real. A lie, of  _course_  Deceit thinks it’s a lie, even though they’ve got the information from reliable sources, even after seeing Mirena and knowing that Dirthamen and Thenvunin are here.

Does it really think this is all someone’s sick joke?

Perhaps…perhaps it  _is_.

“I can have Mirriem show you to his room, if you’d like.” The nurse at the front desk murmurs sympathetically. Melarue offers a stiff nod, and another nurse, a human woman with hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and an even tighter smile, motions for them to follow.

He’s in the pediactric ward, but not intensive care. A bit of the tightness in their chest loosens as they continue to walk. He’s alright. He’s alright. He’s— ** _what if it isn’t him? Someone else. Someone is using him to bring us here. It is a trap. Someone has discovered the truth_** —y _ou are deceit, not fear, calm yourself_ , but the lights above them flicker again, and they breathe in a deep breath.

Not now. Not  _now_. Not when Aelynthi is so close.

They stop just outside of the room, as the nurse pulls his chart off the door, and they stare through the glass window at the small bundle of blankets and brown hair on the other side.

A car accident. A blizzard, rushing to the hospital because he had a fever and—

He’s so  _young_. They…they cannot remember the last time they saw him this young, without it being grainy footage on an old vhs tape.

His cheeks are red, and feverish, and there’s a bandage on the left side of his face and an IV in his little arm. So small,  _too_ small, they can’t stand to see him like this. They press a hand to the glass and swallow.

“And you’re his family?” The nurse Mirriem asks again, looking doubtful.

“His nanae, yes.” Melarue answers, voice tight. They have the paperwork, forged and ready, if they need to go to court over it all, but right now they just want their son. He’s there, so close, just on the other side of a glass door and they will kill this woman if they have to, if she won’t let them see their son. They will make it look like an accident, too easy, they can—

“Oh let them in, Mirriem, you’re making a fuss over nothing,” One of the passing nurses frowns, “Look at the eyes, their eyes are the exact same color as the boy’s. It’s a rather unnatural shade.”

They had…they had almost forgotten, that they’d changed their eye color to his. An unconscious thought, trying to hold onto some small sliver of him after he’d gone— _withered hands clutching their own, their son should not look so_ old _“Nanae, I knew you’d come”—_ no, no more thinking of that, not when he’s  _right here_.

“But—”

“Get them the paperwork, they need to sign off on everything.” The gruff nurse turns, “Has anyone spoken with you yet? Were you told the specifics?”

“About…” Melarue swallows. They can grieve later, “His mother and father, yes. I have been informed. My son…?”

“He had a fever before the accident, but nothing serious. All his injuries are minor. The mother managed to shield him from the worst of the crash.”

Of course she did. Faunalyn would never let anything hurt her son, not if she could stop it.

Melarue nods again, and the gruff nurse motions toward the door, “We’re keeping him overnight, but he should be fine to leave in the morning.”

Right. They’ll need to collect his things from Faunalyn and Nithroel’s home. They’ll…they’ll have to go into that house, and see where the two lived, blissfully unaware of Melarue’s existence.  _They didn’t need you._

_But Aelynthi does._  He needs them now more than ever. He’s  _always_  needed them because  _he is their son_. They slip into the room, the door closing behind them with a soft ‘snick’ and they pull the uncomfortable looking chair in the corner to the edge of the bed and settle themselves down.

They’ll need to make the proper arrangements, for Faunalyn and Nithroel. Would Faunalyn’s parents try and take Aelynthi from them? They won’t allow it. No…Faunalyn’s parents hadn’t cared before, not anymore than they’d cared for her. And from what they’d gleaned from the information provided to them, Faunalyn grew up with only her father this time around, and she left him the moment she was legally able to do so. Nithroel’s parents, perhaps. They may…they may need to be spoken with, and persuaded.

_**Lied to.**_  It is something Melarue has every confidence in. But they can think about that later, can let Deceit come up with all the possible outcomes and solutions, because right now all they can do is stare at their son and watch the soft rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

“…hello da’vhenan,” Melarue whispers thickly. “Hello baby boy.”

He is only  _two_.

He does not know them, what if he is afraid? What if he hates them? They are not his parent, they never were—his little hand tightens around their own, and they return the small squeeze, just as his eyes open.

And for half a second, as their eyes lock, they expect him to murmur, “nanae?” like he used to, but instead his face scrunches up a bit, and his eyes begin to water, and he lets out a sniffle.

**_He wants his mother and father._ **

_I know._

**_He is afraid._ **

_I know!_

“It’s ok,” They murmur, as Deceit wraps around them both, like an odd blanket, somehow soothing, “Nanae is here. Nanae’s got you.”

_I’ll always be here._


	21. The House is Definitely Not Haunted

“No, the house is definitely not haunted. Why do you ask?” Selene asks as she whisks up a fresh bowl of whipped cream to accompany their dessert.

“It just seems that objects around here move on their own at times,” he admits.

Selene pauses mid-stir, sending Des an unquestionably threatening signal as she turns around to face the third Dirthamen so far. “What sort of things?”

 

“Boxes, usually left in the middle of the hall. Picture frames, sometimes, or books. Lights turning on on their own when I pass a room, and a…Selene, are you alright?”

 

She blinks, realizing that she’s accidentally overheated the metal whisk in her hand and sets it in the refrigerator to allow the heavy cream to cool off again before she can continue whipping it.

 

 _Stop. It._  She tells Des.

_I’m just trying to help speed things along._

_I don’t need you to speed anything along, it has been a_ _**week** _ _-_

_A week of awkward flirting where the only time you’ve even kissed him has been when I flung us at him at the bank!_

_Which you shouldn’t have done!_

_Oh, yes, of course. Not like after that he willingly agreed to go out with us, not only for coffee, but three borders over so we could spend the whole night nerding out together in a romantic spot under the stars until the sun rose-OH WAIT THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED!_

_THAT’S NOT THE POINT, DES!_

_OF COURSE IT IS THE POINT! THAT IS_ _**ALWAYS** _ _THE POINT! KISS HIM! TELL HIM! BLOW HIM RIGHT HERE AND NOW I DON’T CARE JUST STOP WASTING WHAT LITTLE TIME WE HAVE BEEN GRANTED!_

 

“Selene?” Dirthamen repeats, carefully wiping at his glasses “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” she strains. “Dessert’s going to take a little longer than I had planned, sorry. We could watch a movie if you want, or play a game.”

“A movie could be nice,” he agrees, following Selene into her living room. She browses through several of her newer titles, listing things he might’ve actually heard of when there is a loud  _ **CRASH**_ from her closet.

 

Selene scowls.

_That better not have been you._

_Good luck proving it without telling him if it waaaas~_

 

Dirthamen beats her to the closet though, not nearly as withheld in his curiosities after living with a supportive family. He opens the door, and Selene has to pull him away before he can be crushed under photographs and old manuscripts of his.

Manuscripts involving more…‘personal’ accounts of their life together that had never been published.

He picks one up, eye skimming over the page. Selene yanks it out of his hand, attempting to keep him from reading over too much.

 

“I did not realize you wrote pornographic publications,” he notes, with genuine curiosity after a minute of awkward silence.  


“I don’t.”

“I do not have much experience, I’ll admit, but I am fairly certain the acts being described on those pages were a very intimate account of sexual intercourse.”

“They were,” Selene admits “But I didn’t write them. A…friend of mine did.”

“Oh,” Dirthamen nods. “…Does that mean you are the woman who was-”

 

“SO,” Selene interrupts, loudly clearing her throat as her voice cracks slightly “Movie?”

Dirthamen pouts, glasses shifting just slightly down the bridge of his nose before he pushes them back up. “Alright.”

 

Selene doesn’t miss his glances back at the closet throughout the length of the movie though.

She’s going to have to explain it all again at some point. Some point soon, now.

 

 _I hate you,_  She gripes.

_You’re welcome._


	22. Ashokara

They hear the sound of a baby’s wails reverberate through the thin walls, and pause in pouring themselves a glass of grapefruit juice.

They’ll need to put up some extra silencing wards, it seems, if Aelynthi’s frown is anything to go by.

It’s times like these that they really wish they’d bought the surrounding property when they’d purchased their flower shop. But they’d wanted to settle down quietly, live simply again, and they hadn’t wanted to arouse any suspicions. A simple florist buying an entire building to renovate it was odd enough, let alone if they’d bought the buildings on either side.

But the old warehouse next door had recently been converted into a jumbled mess of cheap apartments that were probably not up to code. At the latest local businesses meeting, some of the other shop-owners had raised concerns about the lowered market value and some of the “shady characters” they’d presumably seen.

So far, all Melarue has seen are a couple of exhausted college students that attend the nearby university and a young Dalish elf that they have a feeling is a runaway from her clan. No one that could pose a threat, and their home is warded so heavily they can sleep relatively easily at night.

The shop is closed, and Aelynthi is off of school, and they’d planned on heading out for an afternoon with their son, so they think little more of it, as they finish pouring their glass and head back to the dining room table.

—

The baby does not stop crying.

They put up the appropriate silencing wards to muffle the sound, but their own heightened hearing picks it up at night nonetheless.

Something is not right, that much is obvious. The babe sounds hungry, and miserable, and perhaps a little colicky. And it’s been  _three days_.

Regardless of how Melarue feels about drawing attention to themselves, they can’t just leave a baby in that kind of situation without  _doing_ something.

If the baby is still crying at the end of the night, they’ll shift and sneak inside, just to see if there’s a problem. In and out, with no one the wiser.

That’s their plan, they decide.

It doesn’t last long.

They are cleaning the shop window when they spot a figure coming out of the apartment complex next-door. They glance over briefly, eyes flickering to hunched shoulders and towering horns, before going back to the cleaning rag in their hand and then they go still.

That is Kass’ husband.

Kass’  _abusive ex-husband_.

The baby. There is a baby crying— _Ash, crying babe, hurt, mistreated—Kassaran trying to protect her_ …but they had heard no shouts. No sound other than a man shouting and a babe crying  _where is Kass!?_

**_Be careful. He has to come back here. He can’t be gone for long. He’ll be back soon for the babe. Let’s check on Ash first. We need to make sure she’s alright,_** Deceit warns.

But they are moving before they even realize what they’re doing, flipping the sign on the front door from OPEN to CLOSED as they go, shifting their features so they are unrecognizable, just in case there is a security camera somewhere in the building. They doubt it, but being overcautious has kept them alive too long to stop now.

It does not take much to break into the apartment. A little magic and the lock clicks, door swinging open. They can still hear a baby’s cries. The place is a mess, clothes and takeout boxes strewn across the floor; there’s a crib in the corner, tattered and likely secondhand, and they reach down and pull their daughter from a pile of grimy blankets and barely manage to keep from crying.

She is so  _small,_ small enough that the nubs of her horns are just two tiny dark bumps nearly hidden under a mop of white curls. Wailing, and coughing, and obviously malnourished, but undeniably Ash.

“Shhhh, shhhhh,” Melarue soothes, holding her close, “It’s alright firefly, Nanae’s got you.” And Ash does quiet a bit, still sniffling, and Melarue looks around the place briefly. No sign of Kass, which makes their chest go tight, and Deceit goes eerily quiet.

They need to get Ash to safety, first.  _Then_  they can return and question that oxygen thief of a Vashoth. On their way in they’d noticed the predictable lack of security cameras, but they still shield Ash’s small body with their own as they head out of the apartment building and hurry toward their own shop.

They need to get in, and make certain Ash is alright, before her father returns from wherever he’s gone off to. If he’s even remotely competent as a father—which they doubt—he won’t stay away for too long. Then again, leaving her alone at all is reprehensible. They do not wish to do it themselves, but they know they must, at least for a few minutes, to learn what they can from her father.

Besides, she will not be alone, not truly. Deceit can stretch itself thin, to remain linked with them both, and keep an eye on her, and she is barely old enough to do more than turn her head. Melarue places her in the middle of the large bed, and knows that she can’t even move onto her side, let alone roll herself toward the edge, but they are still hesitant to go.

That’s when Anaris meows loudly and hops onto the bed and stares down at Ash, and then looks up at Melarue as if to say,  _I will look out for her, do not worry._

They are not quite certain what Anaris is, truthfully. Not a spirit, but not a cat…or not  _entirely_ a cat. He reminds them quite a bit of Screecher, that abominable bird creature that Thenvunin had loved so dearly, though even that seems not quite right.

Still, he has been with them for a long while, appearing on the street outside of their old apartment in Antiva City when they’d gone there to brood, and shut themselves off from all contact, and properly mourn the loss of all their loved ones.

That had been…more than fifty years ago, and he has stayed with them ever since.

“Make certain she doesn’t turn onto her stomach,” Melarue announces, and Anaris lets out an offended yowl, likely to say  _I know how to keep babies safe!_

Still, they will make certain that Deceit is also watching her, as they head back down the stairs and toward the apartment. They turn the lights off inside, and place a few quick silencing wards in case they need to get rough, and settle themselves against the wall to wait, listening through Deceit to Ash’s soft sniffles and sobs.

It does not take him long to return.

He walks through the front door holding a plastic bag from the local drugstore, a lit cigarette between his lips, and places it on the couch before he seems to realize that something is off. He turns, just as Melarue grabs him and slams him against the wall.

“Where is Kassaran?” They ask. He’s taller than they are, more muscular, but Deceit’s strength lets them overpower him easily, and it takes little effort to keep him in place even as he struggles. The biggest effort comes in refraining from killing him outright, but they need information.

“What?” He spits, “I don’t know what—”

“Think  _harder_ ,” Melarue drawls, pressing their nails against his throat. They let them grow out a bit, tips pinching at skin, threatening to do more. “It will be far more difficult to talk without a voicebox, so I suggest you speak now.”

“I don’t know any Kassaran. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, crazy fuck!”  ** _He is not lying. He does not know Kassaran._**

“The babe’s mother,” Melarue continues coolly. “I am talking about the babe’s mother.”

“Paloma?” He gasps out, “That bitch ran out on me. If you find her—”

Paloma.

**_A different name, perhaps,_**  Deceit interjects.  ** _Different name this time around. Not unlikely._**

But Kass would never abandon Ash. Would never leave without her. She would never leave her daughter here with this  _thing_.

**_A different name. A different person? Or perhaps people are not always the same. We have changed. It is likely they have as well._ **

_My son is the same._

**_He is not._ **

_He is close enough. He is still my son. He would never be a murderer or a rapist or a disgusting piece of filth like this. He would never go so far from himself._ Kass _would never—_

**_We do not know. We must fix this. We must know everything._ **

They pull out their phone from their back pocket, and find a picture of Kass, and hold it up. “Do you know her?”

He stares at the image, and time seems to slow, before he shakes his head. “I don’t know who that is.”  ** _He’s telling the truth._**

Something eases inside of them, then. Kass is not here. Kass is…Kass is safe, then? But how can Ash be here without her? Where could she  _be_? They have to stop that line of thought quickly, before they get lost in what ifs and possible theories. Now is not the time for that. No…they must…they must deal with this pest first.

“I could kill you right now, if I wished to.” Melarue continues, holding his gaze, “It wouldn’t be difficult to dispose of your body. No one would come looking for you. No one would question your death. Right now I am trying to decide if I should waste even that minimal amount of energy, do you understand?”

“Yes,” He croaks. His nails have dug into their arm, and they can feel that the skin has broken, but the pain barely registers.

“You are going to leave this city immediately. If you are still in this apartment tomorrow, I will kill you. If I find out that you have found a place to live elsewhere in this city—and I  _will_ find out—I will kill you. If you ever try to see your daughter or Paloma ever again, I will kill you.” They do not believe that Paloma is Kass, but they wish her safety regardless. “ _Do you understand_?”

He lets out a wheezing moan, and they loosen their hold on his throat long enough for him to gasp out another yes.

“Good.”

They let him drop to the ground and head for the door without another word, closing it behind them. They stand outside, for a few moments, and listen for any sign of pursuit, but they hear nothing but harsh breathing and strangled curses.

Ash is crying again, when they walk into their home and pick her up. Definitely colic; they’ll have to set up a doctor’s appointment for the next day. They make a mental note to call Aelynthi’s pediatrician, before they press a kiss to Ash’s forehead.

It hits them then, that this is real. That they’ve found her. Their legs threaten to give out on them, and they hurriedly sit down on the edge of the bed and let out a soft sob.

They were too late to save Nithroel and Faunalyn.

_Please, please let Kass be alright. Even if I never find her, just let her have a good life._

Ash hiccups, as the crying stops, and she reaches for Melarue’s hair. Melarue swallows, and gives her a trembling smile.

“Looks like we’ll need to grab some things, hm? We’ve got a few hours before your big brother Aelynthi comes back from school. Want to go for a little walk, firefly?”

Ash responds with a playful giggle.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”


	23. Purple

“Why is it suddenly purple?” Dirthamen pants, arms still suspended above his head by the silk ropes.

 

“Hm?” She purrs, fingers tracing over his bared skin. Pressing patterns and swirls, words and oaths. Exploring the expanses and enjoying the sight of him, hard and aching before her.

Before them.

 

“Your skin,” he explains, breath catching as her lips kiss a slow trail from the tip of his ear and down his chest. “It’s become tinted…purple.”

 

Selene blinks, and Dirthamen leans forward as she pulls herself away from him to inspect her arm.

Oh.

Her skin is a bit purple, she supposes . Her hand moves to her forehead, checking to see that her horns aren’t showing, at least. No bumps that she can find, just a smooth expanse up to her hairline.

“I suppose it’s just a part of me now,” she hums, less concerned with it than she probably should be. “Does it scare you?”

 

“No,” he asserts.

 

She gives him a grin, fingers closing around his chin, her lips grazing against his own as she whispers back “ ’ _No_ ’? You’re not afraid of the big bad abomination? Here to give you everything you ever wanted, and all it will cost you is your life?”

 

“I am not afraid of  _you,_ ” he assures her, eyes raising to lock with her own “I would give you my life even if you gave nothing in return.”

 

Selene sighs, lips skimming against his as her eyes close and she vows “I love you too.”

 

Her hand slides down his collarbone, over his shoulder and down his sides. Dirthamen shivers, still restrained while his body cries out for more attention. Selenes hand gives him a slow, solid stroke, eliciting a delicious groan from him even as she pulls away.

They’ve only just begun, after all.


	24. Abominations

It starts with the matter of a Missing Persons case.

A high-profile one, involving the eldest son of one of Arlathan’s most notorious elven families. The case has some peculiarities. There is no lack of suspicious activity, it is only that connecting the suspicious activity from one matter to the next is proving an insurmountable challenge. Cullen knows, because it was his first major case, and he spent a great deal of time pouring over the files and conducting interviews, turning up so many sketchy loose ends that he felt like he was knitting some kind of peculiar throw-rug of horrors by the end of it.

Two years before the case came to him, the second eldest son of Mythal and Elgar’nan Evanuris had died in a freak boating accident. Drowned, the coroner’s report determined, after getting drunk and falling off the side of his parents’ yacht. His twin brother, Falon’Din Evanuris, had been the only witness to the eighteen-year-old’s demise. The family had closed ranks and sequestered the older twin at a private spa to ‘recover from his grief’, but since the whole thing was deemed an accident, there hadn’t been much need to pry into it beyond that.

Except that the lives of the Evanuris children seem to have been  _fraught_  with ‘incidents’.

Like the kidnapping attempt, when the twins were just a year old. An unknown figure obtained entry to the Evanuris’ Arlathan estate, bypassing several security systems and getting all the way to the nursery before Elgar’nan Evanuris chanced upon the intruder while getting up to check on his sons. Whoever the figure was, they had been a mage, and the two had fought until Elgar’nan accidentally lit the nursery door on fire; at which point he had proceeded into the room to rescue the children, and the assailant had doused the flames and fled before emergency services arrived.

There is some grainy old security footage, but all it managed to capture was a distinctly elven-looking individual vaulting over the back gate with highly irregular physical skill.

Suspicions of an abomination had been raised, but the Evanuris family had preferred to rely on their own private investigators, and hadn’t cooperated very much with the police inquiries into the incident.

And then there are the records of juvenile ‘misbehaviour’ on Falon’Din’s part. Theft, vandalism, assault – the young mage’s childhood reads like a steady series of criminal escalations. Not at all surprising for a wealthy young mage, but frustrating, as Cullen can see the signs of money and corruption interfering with what should have been straight-forward investigations and prosecutions. Two more aborted kidnapping attempts are on the record – one when the twins started kindergarten, and one again when they were around thirteen. But given the actions of the family, there may have been more that were left unreported.

One account in particular includes a description from one of the Evanuris family’s daughters, who had been seven at the time – she witnessed the would-be kidnapper trying to make off with one of her brothers, and raised an alarm, and later told police that the person she saw ‘had no face’.

The officer who took the report was inclined to write it off as a child’s fear and a mask.

Cullen’s not so sure, though. He did a lot of reading up on abominations before he signed on with the Magical Law Enforcement Task Group. The unofficial ‘templar’ branch of the police department, as it were; a branch which Cullen dreamed of joining ever since he saw the old Chantry Detective cartoons when he was younger. An abomination fits with a good many of the patterns in play – the magical power to accomplish remarkable feats and avoid detection, the unhinged, obsessive personality that would lead to fixation on a target, the family’s desire to keep everything quiet.

And yet…

The security footage from two of the attempted kidnappings clearly show different elves. Shape-shifting  _could_  be involved, but it would have to be at a level beyond what’s been seen in centuries. And then, too, abominations are powerful, but they burn out quickly. They’re too violent and aggressively unhinged to fit into society for long. Unless they have help, perhaps; and there  _are_  accounts of abominations living for obscene lengths of time, under the right circumstances. Cullen was never certain how much credence to give that notion. It always seemed rather implausible and paranoid to him – but then again, demons  _can_  be deceptive.

It stands to reason, on some level, that an abomination comprised of a certain kind of demon, and a certain kind of mage, might lead to an end result with an atypical set of behaviours.

Of course, that doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with Falon’Din Evanuris’ disappearance. The man’s own records offer up a multitude of reasons for why he might vanish from his own apartment in Denerim in the dead of night. By what accounts Cullen is able to glean, his family had levelled an ultimatum at him to either go to rehab or be financially cut off. Falon’Din was in debt up to his eyeballs, ran with a shady crowd, and Cullen is fairly certain he was addicted to lyrium, too.

And also that he’s dead.

Maybe the kidnapper killed his brother, too. Although why not take them both out in one night? And then as well there is the matter of another high-profile elven family with a notorious vendetta against the Evanurises. There are so many leads, Cullen’s not even sure which one to follow; which, in the end, is what gives him the freedom to pursue the lead that lines up with his biggest suspicions.

He starts looking for signs of abominations.

First within the Evanuris family, and then within their rivals.

Captain Stannard gives him approval for the task.

“I have long believed that these elven mage families harbour more illegal blood magic and demon dealings than anyone in Tevinter would care to acknowledge,” she tells him, her lip curling. “Not that we can ever expect the Tevene authorities to look into magical crimes. Half their police force  _is_  mages.”

He nods in acknowledgement, and takes the go-ahead for what it is. Even if it doesn’t solve the matter of Falon’Din Evanuris’ disappearance – and honestly, Cullen doesn’t think he’ll lose a lot of sleep over it – if it uncovers enough evidence of magical corruption, he’ll still consider it a job well done. People like the Evanuris family, he thinks, are more dangerous than endangered at the end of the day.

Of course, Arlathan’s own police department isn’t eager to give him a lot of leeway in terms of investigating the matter, even if the disappearance  _did_  happen in Ferelden. But between the city’s peculiar standing in Tevinter’s laws and the loopholes in foreign relations, Cullen gets enough room to go and question some of the individuals with connections to Falon’Din Evanuris.

In the end, his key lead is something almost laughably innocuous and seemingly unrelated.

One of the magisters who lets him in for a polite conversation and some tea – Cullen isn’t sure why gets him in the door, to be honest, but he’ll take the opening, even if an inordinate amount of the questioning seems to involve the older woman asking him how they make such ‘strapping fine men’ in Ferelden – has him sit with her out in the gardens behind her home. Midway through their conversation, she stops, and hisses through her teeth. And then she stands up and throws a scone at one of the trees, which startles a very large, predatory bird from it.

“That damnable creature!” she says.

Cullen blinks.

“The bird?” he asks.

“Ooh, if you can call it a bird,” the magister says, and then seems to realize that chucking scones into foliage is a little odd, and settles back down again. Smoothing unmessed hair into place once more. “Forgive me. But I swear, that bird has been a  _menace_  on this neighbourhood ever since I was a girl. Always letting out such awful cries, and sneaking into the garden, stealing fish from the pond. Do you know, I had a thirty sovereign red catfish from Seheron – ugly thing, but very fashionable at the time – and that horrible bird swooped in and just swept it clean out of my pond. I went to the neighbourhood committee about it, but of course, they never do anything about it. Consul Uthvir has them eating out of their hand.”

Cullen blinks.

“Um,” he says. “Forgive me, but do you mean to tell me that the  _same_  bird has been… ‘menacing’ your gardens since you were a child? You mean, for decades?”

The magister brushes another hand over her hair.

“More than two, perhaps,” she says, demurely.

“I did not think birds lived that long,” Cullen mentions. “Are you certain it is the same one?”

The comment earns him a shrug.

“I prefer not to imagine that thing  _multiplying_  a brood waiting somewhere in the wilds of Tevinter. Some mages can keep their pets alive for longer than others. Consul Uthvir could certainly manage it, and I wouldn’t put it past them to do so simply out of spite. They’re the  _worst_  sort of blood mage, you know. Not that anyone ever reports anything, you’d never catch them out, but it’s an epidemic among these ‘old money’ elves. They only have two things they can leverage, after all. Looks, and cheats.”

The accusations about blood magic have the gears in Cullen’s mind turning swiftly, as does the oddity of the bird.

He manages to get the address of this ‘Consul Uthvir’ from the magister, although it takes him another hour of odd conversation that offers up few other leads. By the time he finally extricates himself, the sky is just beginning to turn towards evening, and the air is very hot. Cullen drives his way down the street, over to a walled-off manor, with a shut gate and an oddly-styled manor behind it. A plaque on the wall marks the place as being part of the ‘Arlathan Preservation Society’.

Cullen buzzes the intercom, but there’s no answer.

After his second try hitting the button, the bird from before wings its way over to the wall.

It stares at Cullen.

Cullen stares back, taking in the sight of long talons, and brown feathers, and a razor sharp beak. Beady eyes narrowed at him.

The bird makes a shrieking sound, and then tilts its head.

What a strange impulse, to keep such a thing as a pet. He really can’t see the appeal. Give him a good old fashioned hound any day of the week. But even so, he finds himself wondering what kind of strange magics the poor creature might have been subjected to. Back when he was a new recruit, one of his first cases had involved investigating lyrium abuses on animals. The bird doesn’t show the signs of poisoning, at least, but there’s definitely…  _something_  about it.

Cullen contemplates it a moment longer, and then he has an idea. He fishes a packet of crackers out of the glove compartment of his car, and holds it up. Shaking it like a treat bag.

“Here, birdy, birdy,” he entices.

The bird tilts its head in the opposite direction, and lets out another squawk.

“Here, boy, here, come and get and some crackers,” Cullen tries.

He jumps in surprise, then, when the intercom beside him sparks unexpectedly to life.

“Get back in the car, and leave my property,” an unfamiliar voice instructs, sternly enough that he finds himself almost obeying out of pure reflex. Up on the wall, the bird ruffles its feathers, and then takes off – but, not towards Cullen or his bag of crackers. Instead it swoops down and back into the estate.

He recovers quickly, though.

“Are you Consul Uthvir?” he asks. “I’m Officer Cullen, with the… animal welfare division…”

The lie sits uneasily on his tongue, but he thinks it will get him further than the truth. Especially if this Uthvir is the kind of person who is obsessed with their pets.

The voice on the other end snorts, though.

“There is no ‘animal welfare division’ in Arlathan, young man, and even if there was it probably wouldn’t have ‘officers’. You’ve also been canvassing this entire neighbourhood. Rich people are terrible gossips, don’t they teach you about that during your police training back in Ferelden?”

Cullen lets out a breath.

“Look, I’m only trying to investigate a missing persons case. There’s no need to be alarmed, I’m just looking for helpful information…”

“Mm. And I bet Magister Othellia was only too happy to manufacture a dozen reasons why you should come and harass me. Though, that doesn’t explain why you are trying to coerce my  _bird._  That is deeply suspicious behaviour, Officer Cullen, and as  _I_  am a paranoid eccentric and  _you_  are deciding lacking in warrants or jurisdiction, I think it’s time you left. But I do hope you have a pleasant evening.”

There’s a  _click,_  as the intercom shuts down.

Cullen is left in the changing light, with nothing but a warded wall and the uncomfortable heat. He takes another minute just trying to see something – he’s not sure what, really – and then he is forced to admit temporary defeat, and heads back to his car again.

He has a new direction, though.

His attempts to dig up more information on the mysterious Uthvir don’t really get him very far, though. He learns that they only live in the city part-time. That they’re older, and that their husband recently passed away. Checking the internet reveals shockingly few interactions via social media, and only a handful of photographs – all from secondary sources. Cullen has better luck finding photographs of their bird, and that’s when he discovers, of all things, a cryptid fansite that hosts ‘crack theories’, which includes several pictures of Uthvir’s bird, and a long speculative post that’s about ten years old, that theorizes that this same bird has been an inconsistent resident of Arlathan for at least two hundred years.

The comments section is full of arguments, efforts to debunk the theory and an overall impression that most people think it’s a joke. The bird in question, it is generally insisted, is a rare  _type_  of bird native of Arlathan – apparently nearly extinct, according to one ornithologist – but there are definitely more than one, and the lack of photograph evidence to that effect is mostly just because this species is rare and not terribly communal, and most examples are in captivity now. There is one poster in particular who produces photographs of the same-looking-bird which they insist were taken in a rescue center on the other side of the country.

Cullen looks into that rescue center. It seems to be a real place, but when he checks into the details, he finds a memorial page.

The founder of the organization has died recently, it seems, of natural causes.

His name is the same name as Uthvir’s deceased husband. Thenvunin.

It’s not anything concrete to go off of, technically, but Cullen’s gut tells him that it’s all the confirmation which  _he_  needs. Going back to the theory, he can see it lining up. Blood magic, maybe. But what kind of family would use blood magic for more than a century to extend the lifespan of one obnoxious, ugly bird?

Unless it wasn’t a family operating between generations. Maybe it was just one elf. One elf, with an attachment, and a very,  _very_  long lifespan…

Cullen takes his findings to the Arlathan police force. He’s in earnest, and there  _is_  evidence of suspicious activity, so he’s expecting them to at least entertain the idea. But they almost laugh him out of the station instead. Captain Stannard was right, he thinks. They don’t take magical crimes seriously in this city. He goes back to the manor himself, but there’s no answer at the gate; and when he tries to climb up the back garden wall, he gets blasted with a ward strong enough to burn his hands and send him tumbling into a neighbouring hedge.

He makes an effort to dismantle the wards, but it’s like trying to chisel stone with a butter knife.

More fuel for the concept of this Uthvir being an abomination, though.

He decides to camp outside of the manor. They have to leave sometime, after all, and when they do, Cullen can hit them with a radiant nullifier that will expose the demon, if one is there. He wraps up his hands and spends the better part of a day reviewing his technique while he sits down the street, in his car, watching for signs of an old elf or a strange bird.

Nothing.

His stomach starts growling, and he realizes the folly of trying to stage an impromptu stake-out. Magister Othellia’s home is within sight of the manor. Cullen debates, and then takes a chance, and goes and rings her door again. She’s happy to welcome him inside and offer him another tea, which takes the edge off of things; but when he broaches the topic of Uthvir, she shakes her head.

“Oh, they left last night,” she says. “I didn’t think they would head for the country this summer, what with them mourning that man of theirs, but I suppose some people are quick to recover from that kind of thing. They’ll probably have a younger model on their arm by midwinter.”

Cullen fails to bite back a curse.

He tries other things, after that. Visits Uthvir’s husband’s grave site before he leaves the city, but there are no signs of them. They don’t have a workplace, it seems they work from home as some kind of ‘consultant’ – which is suspicious enough on its own, but no one is eager to help him investigate the particulars  _there,_  either.

He’s on the verge of giving up when his case gets a new lead.

And it’s a dramatic one.

He gets a call while he’s still in Arlathan, and heads for the site. The Evanuris family manor, which is halfway across the city from the district he’d been investigating. Cullen arrives to the scene, and has to cover his mouth against the scent of smoke in the air.

The fire which has consumed a segment of the house is not the trouble, though. That, apparently, was the result of Elgar’nan Evanuris coming outside and finding the body of his eldest son lying on top of the trash cans; throat slit, body brutalized. By the looks of it he put up a fight, before being overpowered. There are signs of damage from spellwork, and ice magic, though whether his opponent cast the spells or his own backfired onto him is less clear.

His wounds are bleeding.

He might have been drained for some sort of ritual, Cullen thinks. Or he’s been dead for some time.

The family is, understandably, upset. He still has interviews to do, but this time the local police prove helpful enough. He gathers that the housekeeper was the first to find the body, in the morning, and he ran screaming into the household and roused everyone else. Elgar’nan Evanuris damaged his own property in a fit of uncontrolled magic that his Cullen’s lips thinning in disapproval, especially when the local police decline to even fine him for it. Mythal Evanuris is quiet, and answers as few questions as she can get away with.

As soon as they can, the rest of the family chases off the investigation. Cullen doesn’t go out easily, but after a point, there are only so many questions he can ask, and so much luck he can press. The body is sent off to the coroner’s, and he has to try and get the paperwork done to have it sent to Denerim instead – it’s a long shot, but given that’s where Falon’Din went missing, it’s also not unlikely that it’s where he died, too. This investigation should still be theirs.

Arlathan, and Tevinter, and ultimately the police forces involved disagree, however. And by the time Cullen is back home in Ferelden, his case has been handed over to the Arlathan PD. Who, he thinks, will probably never solve it. The entire incident is more likely to end in some kind of back alley retribution than any real justice.

But when she reads his report, Captain Stannard gives the matter some further consideration.

“I don’t know that we should lightly abandon the threat of potential abominations and blood magic abuses, even if the murder case is no longer our responsibility,” she says. “Arlathan can keep its investigations into the death of a questionable elven mage. But abominations are threats which know no borders. They imperil us all. So I am giving you sanctioning to continue your investigation into suspicious mage activity – obviously, there is only so much we can do when crossing borders. However, I think we can both agree that sometimes  _unofficial_  measures are needed, where such dangers are concerned.”

“That seems reasonable,” Cullen agrees.

And so what starts with the Missing Persons case, becomes a side investigation that eats up a significant portion of his free time, as he does his best to try and track down the mysterious Uthvir, and their various contacts and connections.

It’s difficult work, with even more dead ends than the Evanuris investigation turned up. Cullen waits, and watches, but none of Uthvir’s known properties show any signs of them. The bird isn’t seen again; a return visit to Magister Othellia has her confirm that it hasn’t darkened her garden since Uthvir ‘went on vacation’. Trying to follow the paper trail just leads to dead ends; accounts with a few thousand dollars here and there, but nothing that gets accessed and nothing with the sort of wealth that would explain the multiple homes and the expensive, antiquated manor in Arlathan.

Cullen is investigating for  _months_ before he even learns that Uthvir has children.

An adopted son and daughter, and a biological child, all living in Ferelden; out in one of the smaller cities near the Brecilian Reserve. Cullen finds the son, first. A big qunari – er,  _vashoth_  – man living in a relatively quiet Ferelden community still draws attention, and ‘Irenan’, or ‘Iron Bull’ as he prefers, is big and loud and well-known to his neighbours. His Instagram account is almost entirely pictures of himself getting much too close to some of the dragons that live out on the reserve.

Cullen’s expecting another cold reception. So he’s surprised when, upon approaching the man, he doesn’t even need to try to win him over – Iron Bull, settled at the local sports bar, offers to buy him a drink and welcomes him to come and join the group he’s with.

“Always nice to see new faces in town,” he declares. “You from Denerim?”

Cullen blinks.

“Er, not originally,” he allows. “I grew up near Redcliffe, but I moved there for work.”

“Ha, I bet you think that’s travelling,” Iron Bull says, jovially. “Krem and I grew up in  _Tevinter._ Didn’t we, Krem?”

“That we did, chief,” the young man named Krem agrees, even as he mostly keeps his eyes on the game being played on the bar’s flat screen television. Nicer than most that tend to be in small towns like this, in fact. He finds himself suspicious of it.

“You ever been to Tevinter, hot shot?” Iron Bull asks him.

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Cullen confirms. “I went there on an investigation, once.”

“Oh, well! I’ll drink to that,” Iron Bull exclaims, gesturing at Cullen to join in with him. The beer isn’t nearly as mild as he’s expecting; it burns on the way down, dark and rich, and for half a second Cullen worries that it’s been drugged. At least he does until he sputters, and the bar erupts into laughter and snickers, and Krem tears his gaze away from his sporting event to explain that the local beverages have a higher-than-usual alcoholic content.

“Chief’s fault,” he says. “Technically he owns this joint, and he likes to haze newcomers.”

“Aw, c’mon, Krem de la Crème. Don’t go giving away  _all_  my secrets,” Iron Bull protests.

“You own this bar?” Cullen double checks.

“Yup!” the man confirms. “Well, me and the Dalish, anyway. Technically you’re drinking in sovereign Dalish territory. This whole town belongs to them. Only place in the world where that’s true, right here in Ferelden. Say, you’re a cop, right? Did you have to announce yourself before you came in, or is this not an official business trip?”

Cullen frowns, a little. The drink, and the friendly atmosphere, and the questions are starting to add up.

Is this man  _questioning_  him?

“It’s not official business,” he says.

Iron Bull nods, nonchalant as ever, and claps a hand against his back.

“So it’s just a vacation, huh? Come to the see the forests? I know some good local guides, if that’s the case. You shouldn’t go hiking alone. We’ve got dragons living around here, after all.”

“I’ll, um. Keep that in mind,” Cullen agrees. Then he clears his throat, and shifts a little. Why Iron Bull would  _know_  to question him is something of a mystery. So he might have some wriggle room here. “So, if you grew up in Tevinter, does that mean all your family is back there?”

“Nah,” Iron Bull says, waving a hand. “My sisters live here, too. Well, most of the time. Virevas comes and goes, she’s a bit of a wanderer, but Kel’s settled down. We like it out here. It’s quieter than Arlathan, and friendlier to elves than most other places. And vashoth, too, as it happens. At least, I’ve never had much trouble.”

“That’s a bold lie, Chief,” Krem interjects.

Iron Bull scoffs.

“Don’t go outing me to the cops, now,” he says. “I’m an upstanding citizen. Pay all my taxes and dues to the Dalish Council, and I never feed the bears.”

Cullen feels like that’s part of some joke which he isn’t privy to the details of, as a few other patrons snicker, and Krem chuckles.

“And what about your parents?” Cullen wonders.

The bar quiets, some.

Iron Bull clears his throat, and looks down at his mug.

“Sorry,” he says. “Pops… passed away. Not too long ago. Kind of a rough subject for me right now.”

“I’m sorry,” Cullen offers.

Iron Bull clears his throat, and look genuinely bereaved.

“Yeah, well. It happens,” he says.

Awkward silence prevails throughout the bar, until one of the patrons, sitting at a nearby table, lifts up their beer.

“To Bull’s Pop,” they say.

“To his memory,” Krem readily agrees. “He was a good man.”

There are a few murmurs of agreement, and raised glasses. Cullen adds in his own, and ends up trying not to cough around his next swig, as Bull clanks his mug against his and Krem’s, and downs the contents in one rigid move.

And then somehow, Cullen finds that the reasons for him to keep drinking manage to slide their way into the rest of the interaction, with far more consistency than any useful answers to his questions. The diversion straight into the matter of Iron Bull’s deceased father successfully prevents him from easily or discreetly asking about Uthvir, and the man has a surprising knack for manipulation. Or else he’s just too sincere to ignore. Cullen can’t actually tell. All he knows is that by evening, he’s drunker than he’s been in  _years,_  and he almost doesn’t make it back to his hotel in one piece.

And that’s how he meets Ela.

Ela, with her Dalish tattoos and her breathtaking beauty, who finds him slumped over on a curb on a dirt road, trying to get his head to stop spinning long enough so he can read the street sign. Lost, and not entirely sure where his car is, because someone took his keys.

“Oh, Maker,” he murmurs. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I’m too drunk for this.”

She laughs at him, just a little taken aback by his comment, it seems.

“I’ve heard alcohol makes people look more attractive and usual,” she suggests.

Cullen’s not actually sure that it works that way. But he doesn’t quite manage to explain himself, as Ela gets him up off the street, and does him the tremendous favour of helping him find his hotel. Which shouldn’t be difficult, in theory, as it’s the only one in town. But there are a lot of winding streets and big, huge trees, and he’s going to just blame it on the drinking.

Ela ends up being one of the local guides which Iron Bull mentioned in the midst of everything. The next morning Cullen wakes up terribly hungover, with a beautiful woman’s number, and no idea what he’s doing anymore.

He tries to follow his other leads. One of the daughters, Virevas, is apparently out of town, but by her description he can at least rule out the possibility that she’s Uthvir in disguise. The other one, Kel, is heavily pregnant, which makes Cullen feel like an asshole for trying to investigate her family. Though, he consoles himself with the knowledge that babies and abominations are an undoubtedly  _terrible_  combination, and any parent of quality would undoubtedly want their children kept safe from such monsters. Even if said monsters were technically within their own family.

Strictly to keep up appearances, of course, he also goes on a few hiking trips, with Ela as his guide. The region really is very lovely, and more and more Cullen finds his perspective on things… shifting, a little. Wondering why he’s really out here, chasing after the children of someone he suspects could possibly be an abomination, because of a website and a bird. This place is peaceful. It’s not like Tevinter, not simmering with undercurrents of intrigue and lies and murder. All the mysteries seem like the kind of mysteries that just happen along in any place with a lot of wilderness.

It almost reminds him of home, in fact, for all that it’s notably different, too.

And there’s Ela.

If it weren’t for the bird, Cullen thinks he might have left it at that.

But on his fifth day in town, while he and Ela are hiking, he sees it. The distinctive wingspan, the shadow sailing over a distant cluster of trees.

He stops.

“What is it?” Ela wonders.

“That bird,” he says.

She follows the line of his gaze.

“Oh, that,” she says. “That’s the Old Woman’s bird.”

Cullen blinks, taken aback.

“The Old Woman?” he wonders.

Ela nods.

“It’s good luck to see it. There’s an old story some of the clans tell, about a woman who’s lived in the forest since the forest began. She’s the reason the dragons live here, they say. She brought them here to keep them safe, because the Dalish understand dragons better than others do. We know how to keep our distances, at least. Well, everyone except for Bull, but he’s not actually Dalish so that just proves my point.”

Cullen is still frowning, as she nudges his shoulder.

“What is it?” she asks him again.

“…Nothing,” he assures her.

He doesn’t know that he does a good job of convincing her, but it’s enough that the topic dies.

Cullen marks the place where he saw the bird flying, though. And the next day, he heads out alone. Retracting their steps in the morning, and then heading in deeper. Past the places where the roads and the main trails run, onto paths made by animals and hunters, instead. He gets turned around a few times, usually when the trees are too thick for him to get his bearings, but each time he gets a chance to reorient himself, he does.

He knows where he’s heading.

What he doesn’t know is what he’ll  _find._

But then he reaches a point where, no matter how he tries to turn around or course-correct, he always seems to be moving in circles. The telltale hint of magic strikes him the third time around the same bend of trees, and he starts trying to nullify it. It works well enough that he manages to walk out of the illusion, but that just lands him ankle-deep in a lake that seems so far-flung from his starting point, he feels a little nauseous just thinking about the implications.

It’s magic, though. It’s  _definitely_  magic. And he’s convinced, now.

There’s an abomination here.

He needs more people. More with Templar skills, and eyes, but getting permission to march a half dozen officers into a Dalish-owned reserve full of dragons is a tall order, he knows. Still, he has to try. It’s his duty. So he packs up his things, and leaves town. Tries not to think too much of Ela, and the bar, and the very pregnant Kel. He’s doing what’s in their best interests, really. He doesn’t want  _them_  to get hurt – and if there’s an abomination around, then they will be. That’s inevitable.

Captain Stannard agrees with his suspicions.

“We  _need_  to have greater jurisdiction in that territory,” she laments. “Elven regulations on magic are laughable. But as it stands… you remember where this place you saw is?”

“Absolutely,” Cullen assures her.

Captain Stannard sighs.

“Sometimes, it is better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission,” she decides. “I will go with you. I am putting my faith in you, Cullen. You, and I, and a few select trustworthy officers. We can go by night. Avoid the town, and head in separately…”

They pull up a map, and Cullen figures out a good meeting spot, away from the main hubs of activity. It’s best this way, he thinks. They can get in, tackle the abomination, and deal with everything with the least amount of upset. Once the matter becomes clear, people will thank them. They might not understand well enough to let them do their jobs, but nobody wants an abomination running around their neighbourhood.

The night before the operation is set to begin, Cullen barely sleeps. He tries to meditate, instead, to pray and to focus. But the truth is, he’s afraid. He’s never faced down an actual abomination before. Mages, yes. Blood magic, even. But not a possessed creature. Captain Stannard seems almost excited, by contrast, when they meet the next morning.

“It has been decades since anyone has actually destroyed one of these creatures,” she says. “Taking this one out will not only help ensure the safety of the entire continent, it will emphasize the need for better structure in these times. A firmer hand.”

Cullen thinks of kidnappings and murders and mayhem, and finds himself inclined to agree.

And if there is a little voice that points out that he doesn’t actually know if Uthvir had anything to do with any of that, well… it is quiet.

In the early dawn light they set out, and meet up. It takes them the better part of several hours to find the place where the forest keeps turning them away, again. With six Templars present, they’re able to strip down the magical deterrents, and forge a path straight ahead. It’s not long before they find an actual trail. Then evidence of a campsite. Nothing overt, just signs of fires put out, and tracks here and there. Belonging to more than one person, if the shoe size is anything to go off of.

A clearing waits up ahead. Cullen barely sets foot in it, gun at the ready, when the lights go out.

So to speak.

The early morning sunlight, the trees, the open air, all vanish into a block of darkness, like a switch has been flipped. Cullen freezes, and hears his fellow officers suck in shocked breaths, that lets him know that his eyes haven’t just suddenly failed him.

 _“Another deterrent,”_  Captain Stannard hisses.

They start to nullify it, but then Cullen hears a distant shuffling sound. And when he strains his ears, voices.

“-can’t-“

“- _No,_  sick of hiding from-“

“ _Felasel!”_

And then a crack of green splits through the blackness, and Cullen finds himself knocked back. Swept clean off of his feet, as something large and ominous makes its way into the clearing. Spikes of distorted being break up the shadows, and many eyes stare at them, unblinking.

 _Pride abomination,_  Cullen thinks, dimly.

Not what he would have expected for any kind of  _subtle_  being.

“Little Templars,” the creature growls. “Every cycle, I wait for your kind to meet your well-deserved end. And every cycle, you insist upon inflicting your narrow hatreds on the rest of us.”

What? What cycle?

 _Don’t try and make sense of it,_  Cullen reminds himself.  _It’s possessed._

“I do not take pleasure in ending you. But maybe next time you will be wise enough to choose a better path,” the thing continues, and whatever it  _thinks_  it’s going on about, the threat is pretty clear. Cullen gives up trying to stand against the crushing magical pressures in the air, and focuses instead on just moving his hand.

_Just line up a shot. One shot. Sometimes all you need is one shot…_

He aims, and pulls the trigger…

Something arcs in front of the Pride Abomination. A wall of white and purple flame, flaring right before the darkness swallows it again; right before the bullet seems to smash against it, and also veers off into the impenetrable shadows. The Pride demon scowls, and Cullen’s heart drops into his stomach as a second figure appears in front of it. Horned and clawed, easily recognizable even with any part of it that’s not burning still concealed by the dark.

A Desire Abomination.

There are  _two._

“You  _will not_  touch my son,” the thing snarls, furious.

“Beasts!” Captain Stannard calls back, and then lets out a cry. The spell on the air wavers. Cullen puts his own focus into the drain, and at last the darkness is broken, and the magic on them balks. Two of the other officers, more experienced, get to their feet and get back. Moving into position to strengthen the firmament of reality, and strip their opponents of as many advantages as possible. Cullen lets off another shot, but this one gets deflected the same way, before he scrambles onto his own feet.

Only to have them knocked out from under him again; this time as the air cracks with the force of something massive, descending from above.

A familiar bird’s cry breaks the air, and for a moment Cullen thinks that the thing has somehow become absolutely massive. But no, he realizes, as his gaze is forced upwards. It’s much worse than that.

An enormous red dragon descends onto the clearing, letting out a roar and scattering the other officers, as one of its forelegs comes down on Captain Stannard like a meteor. Cullen can’t do anything. It happens so fast, he doesn’t even have time to try and fire another shot, and no nullifications or siphons or smites will work on a  _dragon._  The captain screams, and the abominations move, tearing into the others. Flashes of fire and sickly green light, as Cullen gets to his feet again.

He feels, more than he sees, the presence at his back.

Long shadows stretch up from behind.

He tries to move. Tries to turn. To get his gun up again, but all of his bones feel like they’ve been locked in place. The magic crackling across his skin makes his every hair stand on edge; makes him think he never should have come. Not to the forest, not to the town, not even to Tevinter.

“You’re more persistent than I expected,” the voice he heard over the intercom, months ago, outside a manor house in Arlathan, drawls.

Not two abominations, he realizes.

Three.

Three or… or maybe even  _more._

 _Captain Stannard was right,_  he thinks.

“I’m sorry. But unfortunately for you, that means this is the end of the line.”

He can feel something reaching for his neck. And much as most of him thinks he should face death with dignity, he also can’t remember ever being this terrified before in his life.

“Please,” he manages. “I don’t want to die…”

The shadows around him waver, just a little. The pressures on him ease just enough, and it’s an  _opening._  His training kicks in. Take every opening, show no mercy, do not waver, do not let the enemy grip you. Tempt you. Magic can kill you in an instant, so you must be faster. Honour will anchor you, integrity will guide you, but the Maker gives his blessings in the moments when demons blink.

He twists his wrist, and breaks some of the magic around him, and fires.

The shot seems to echo, amidst the sounds of spells and the flashes of magic, as blood sprays across the tree behind him. The elf at his back is shorter than he expected. The bullet leaves a red mark in the middle of their brow; a perfect shot. In a flash, the shadows in the clearing die. The abomination slumps, and as it does it seems to break the long, strained silence of the moment.

_“Nanae!”_

_“Nabae!”_

_“Uthvir!”_

The cry is the only warning which Cullen gets before something blue and bright erupts in the corner of his vision, gripping him with misery and pain. Crushing and deep and then cold.

The last thought he manages, as he feels his own heart stop beating, is:

_How many **are**  there?_

_…One less, at least._

_One less._

 

_~_

 

Vara hears it from Felasel first.

He gets a phone call, and then the whole story that progressively got worse and worse as it went, eventually ending in Nabae Uthvir’s death at Cullen’s hand, and Cullen’s death at Eda’s. The whole thing chills him to his core.

It doesn’t make sense at first. Cullen could be a good man,  _should_  have been good. How did he follow such a path in this cycle, Vara can’t understand.

He knows Cullen can be good.

Now he isn’t sure anymore. He can’t very well forgive him for ending his Nabae Uthvir’s life, no. He doesn’t blame Eda for what she did in the end. He would have done the same had he been there.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” Vara says. “I’ll come see everyone soon.” The phone clicks off and Vara turns it over in his hand before trowing it across the room and into the wall.

He reaches for something else and finds a lamp. He pulls it, breaking the chord in the process, and shatters it. The side table is next as he picks it up by the leg and smashes it against a wall.

 _Varawell!_  Grace calls, but he can’t hear her.

All that he can hear is the sound of his own blood rushing through his ears and there’s a lump in his throat so big he feels like he can’t breathe. His heart is in his gut as he picks up more furniture, trashing his apartment to keep from screaming.

When he’s all out, he punches a wall, and sends a wave of ice up one of the wires and into the lights over head. The bulbs freeze, and shatter, broken glass falling over him like rain.

He sinks down, then. Tears wetting his cheeks as he sobs for his Nabae. Nabae Uthvir and their endless patience with him, their kindness. Having them around was always reassuring, having them gone is… there are no good words it. He is a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, warring with each other.

He brings a hand up to his mouth to muffle a sob as he cries for Cullen, and Ela, and the family they could have had.

His Mirlen.

Who he doesn’t deserve the gods graces for having in his life in any cycle. The love of all his lives, Mirlen.

He throws another punch at the wall, lighter this time, hitting it more than punching it, as he weeps and weeps, until he’s able to stop and take a shuddering breath.

 

~

 

Abominations die, she knows.

Sometimes their lives too overwhelming, sometimes they misstep, sometimes the wrong people find out. She has seen it happen time and time again.

It is no surprise when she finds the little spirt of Fear cowering in her corner of the fade, grasping at fragments of themselves. It is not so different than caring for a new born spirit as she and Vitality both nurse them, and put them back together. Help them retain their sense of self, so they do not corrupt further. When Fear leaves her care for Uthvir once again, it is a good reminder for her.

People die.

Abominations die.

Monsters do not.


	25. Uthvir's Reset

After Uthvir finishes their berry tart – and then a bowl of soup, too – Selene and Felasel take them to go and find their dad. They have to leave all the wallets at the restaurant’s Lost and Found, though, and Uthvir’s a little worried that they’ll get in trouble about it. But their dad just says that it’s fine and that they’re going to be staying with his friends for a while.

There’s another new elf waiting with him while he explains. They’re very pretty, and they smile at Uthvir like they’re sharing a secret with them.

“Can I go get my stuff from the car?” Uthvir asks.

Their dad smiles at them, but it’s his tight smile.

“Of course you can,” he says.

Selene tells Felasel to go with them, and Felasel looks like he wants to argue about it. But then he takes Uthvir’s hand and walks them back to where they parked, in the Getaway Spot, and holds Uthvir’s bag while they get their Spider-Man from the back seat.

“That’s an interesting toy,” Felasel notes.

Uthvir clutches Spider-Man firmly to their chest.

“He’s  _mine,”_  they say, and Felasel raises a hand.

“Of course,” he agrees. “I wouldn’t try and take him from you. You… like superheroes, then?”

“Uh-huh,” Uthvir confirms, taking his hand again. “Spider-Man’s the best one! He protects me from bad guys at night. Do you like superheroes, too?”

“Some,” Felasel tells them.

He keeps looking at Uthvir’s doll, though, as they make their way back to where Selene and Dad are waiting. Enough so that Uthvir shifts Spider-Man self-consciously under their arm again. Then Felasel stops staring, and smiles reassuringly at them. Although Uthvir can’t really see his eyes behind the glasses he’s wearing.

Dad hugs them goodbye and tells them to be good, and then Selene and Felasel take them to  _their_  car, which is really nice and still has all the padding on the seats.

Selene stares at Spider-Man, too. One of their dad’s friends liked to tell Uthvir that they were too big for dolls, and they get ready to argue about it. But then Selene just buckles them in and tells them not to undo the buckles, and gives Spider-Man another  _look_  before getting behind the driver’s side.

Felasel sits in the passenger seat, with Uthvir in the back.

It’s a pretty long drive, to wherever they’re going.

Uthvir’s used to long drives, though. They just swing their legs a little, and look out the window, and talk with Spider-Man in their head. Glory gave them Spider-Man when they were too little to remember. He’s Uthvir’s imaginary friend, and he’s a very good friend. Uthvir asks what he thinks about Selene and Felasel and Dad’s other new friend, and Spider-Man says they’re alright.

 _Don’t let them take me from you,_  he warns, though.

 _I won’t,_  Uthvir promises. Spider-Man keeps them safe at night, when they’re sleeping, but during the day he’s just a doll. So Uthvir has to protect  _him_  then, or else he can’t use his superpowers. They set Spider-Man up so he can see out the window, and he warns them that all the cars are going fast and that there’s a good chance they’re going to crash and die. But he always does that when they’re driving. Once he’s finished with it, then he starts telling Uthvir neat things about the cars and the other drivers on the road, and what people are paying attention to and what they’re worried about.

 _What are Selene and Felasel worried about?_  Uthvir wonders.

 _I can’t tell very well,_  Spider-Man admits.  _They know how to hide those kinds of things._

 _Oh,_  Uthvir thinks back, frowning a little.  _How do you know they’re safe, then?_

Spider-Man is quiet for a little bit. Maybe thinking about it.

 _I met them before,_  he finally says.  _Back when we were partners._

 _Really?_  they wonder.

Spider-Man told them that Uthvir used to be his number one partner, a long time ago. But then a bad guy got to them and Uthvir got  _reincarnated,_  and they don’t remember it anymore. Spider-Man does, though, even though he got really badly hurt back then, too. He’s still recovering his strength. Uthvir’s going to help him out more, but they have to wait until they’re older. They aren’t even Robin’s age yet, so they’re not allowed to fight crime.

Plus they’re bad, so they might not be good at it, either. But lots of heroes start out on the bad guy’s team at first, so maybe it’ll work out.

Uthvir and Spider-Man sing the Everyone is Scared song together for some of the drive, then.

_This is the song where everyone’s scared,_

_Something is coming and they’re not prepared,_

_They’re hiding in houses, they’re locking their doors,_

_They’re stashing their valuables under their floors,_

_‘Cause this is the song where everyone’s scared,_

_A monster is coming and they’re not prepared!_

_They’re screaming and crying, and peeing their pants,_

_We’re trying to help them but they don’t stand a chance,_

_‘Cause this is the song where everyone’s scared…_

After a while Uthvir starts quietly singing it out loud, but they stop when they realize they’re getting funny looks from Selene and Felasel.

Selene looks at him through the rearview mirror.

“Where’d you learn that song, Uthvir?” she asks.

They shrug.

“Spider-Man,” they offer. That’s the answer most grown-ups accept, anyway, although technically they and Spider-Man came up with it together.

Felasel clears his throat.

“I thought  _Spider-Man_  had a different song…?” he says.

“Oh,” Uthvir realizes. “Yeah. Do you wanna sing that one? I know the words to it, too.”

“Sure, let’s sing that one,” Selene suggests, and Uthvir grins as she starts, and they join in. And then Felasel does, too, until the whole car is singing Does Whatever a Spider Can. Their dad hardly ever sings with them, and then it’s usually just his ‘oldies’, but Uthvir likes having  _everyone_  join in. It’s nice. Even Spider-Man sings, too, in their head.

Selene’s house is really pretty. When they finally pull up to it, Uthvir almost thinks there’s been a mistake. But then they get unbuckled and Selena and Felasel lead them right up to the front door, past the hedges and the garden and the flower pots. An old dog is lying on the front porch. Uthvir asks if he can pet it, and Selene says yes, and the dog thumps their tail and then licks Uthvir’s face, and sniffs at Spider-Man.

Selene and Felasel talk softly with one another, while Uthvir pets the dog’s ears.

Then Selene motions them back over.

“I have to go and pick up Adannar from school,” she says. “His parents are my next door neighbours, and he visits sometimes when they’re working late. He’s a little older than you. Felasel is going to keep an eye on you while I’m gone.”

“Okay,” Uthvir says. “I won’t steal anything. I only do that when it’s a job.”

Selene smiles at them.

“Well I appreciate you not stealing things. We’re a theft-free household,” she tells them.

“Okay, I’ll be good,” they agree again.

Selene heads back to the car, then, and Felasel lets them into the front of the house.

Inside’s really nice, too. It makes Uthvir think of when they lived with their mom. Spider-Man tells them the paint’s all different, but the stairs are in the same place, and in the air freshener smells the same, too. They hesitate, turning around and around in the front room, until Felasel reaches down and pats them on the shoulder.

“Want to watch some cartoons?” he suggests.

Uthvir agrees, and lets themselves be led into the living room. The television is big, but not humungous. One of their dad’s friends had a television that took up practically their whole apartment. They didn’t even have a couch, either, just a sleeping bag and this big huge screen. It was funny. They tell Felasel about it as he fishes around and finds some superhero shows, and puts them on.

Selene and Felasel’s house has a couch, though. It’s comfy, and soft, and has thick arms that Uthvir can prop Spider-Man up on, so he can watch cartoons, too.

_Attempting that in real life would be fatal._

_He should not have survived that fall._

_That security system is grossly inadequate…_

Uthvir listens to him explain everything as they watch the explosions, and Felasel does some things on his phone. Every so often, though, Felasel glances back at Spider-Man, until Uthvir picks him up and finally lets out a tremendous sigh.

“Do you want to hold him?” they offer.

Felasel blinks.

“You have to give him back, though,” Uthvir specifies. “He’s  _my_  Spider-Man. But you can hold him for a little bit, while we watch cartoons.”

“I…” Felasel says. And then he just nods. He looks all sad again, so Uthvir doesn’t begrudge him  _too_  much. Spider-Man’s not really great at helping people feel better, but sometimes he does anyway. He’s good to hold, at least. Uthvir sets him up nicely in Felasel’s lap, and then goes back to watching Iron Man stop a plane from crashing into the ocean.

After a few minutes, they hear Spider-Man talking again.

 _In a sense,_  he says.

 _What’s in a sense?_  Uthvir wonders.

 _I’m talking to a spirit,_  Spider-Man tells them.

 _Oh,_  Uthvir nods, and subsides. Sometimes Spider-Man does that.

They tune out the rest of the half-heard conversation, then, except for little bits and pieces.

_It was my own fault. I shouldn’t have given him the opening._

_Done is done._

_Of course I do. I never forgot._

Uthvir’s watching a bunch of aliens get beat up when Felasel leans over, and very gently rests a hand on their shoulder.

They look over, and frown as they see that his cheeks are wet.

“It’s okay,” they say. “The good guys will win.”

Felasel starts crying harder, though. Uthvir frowns, and picks up the remote, and hits the fast forward button until the fighting’s done and the bad guys are getting locked up. They try and show Felasel, but he just shakes his head, and keeps crying. Like he doesn’t know how to stop. Uthvir puts the remote back down, and reaches up and pats his arm, and then gives him a hug. They’re a little surprised when they get pulled in close, but it’s not bad or anything.

Uthvir pats him again.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry, I’m  _so_   _sorry_ …”

“It’s okay,” Uthvir offers. “I won’t tell anybody you cried.”

That just makes Felasel cry  _even harder,_  though, and they’re really starting to worry when they hear the front door open again. Then there’s the sound of running feet, and keys jangling, and dog paws heading inside. An unfamiliar little boy scoots around the side of the couch, and stares at them with wide eyes.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I dunno,” Uthvir admits. “Felasel’s sad.”

The boy’s expression falls, and then he dashes around the other side of the couch, and climbs up onto Felasel’s opposite side.

“It’s okay, Felasel! We’ll hug it better!” he promises.

The man sucks in a shaky breath, and then the dog from outside jumps up and tries to join in, making crying noises and licking at his face. And then Selene comes into the room, and looks at it all like she’s not totally surprised. Then she gently shoos the dog back down, and eases Uthvir and the little boy – probably Adannar – away from her friend.

“Let’s give Felasel a little room, now,” she suggests. “Adannar, can you show Uthvir where the spare room is?”

“I guess so,” Adannar agrees, somewhat dubiously. “Are you sure Felasel doesn’t need more hugs?”

“He’ll be okay. I can always hug him too, if he does,” Selene assures him.

Uthvir reaches over, and reclaims Spider-Man from Felasel’s lap. They offer him another pat for good measure.

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t scared,” they promise, as he stares at them. They’ve seen television shows that were way worse than superhero cartoons, after all.

Felasel reaches over, and brushes their cheek. And then Adannar takes their hand and starts tugging them towards the hall, introducing himself and saying that he’s in Grade One and his favourite animals are dogs and his favourite number is four and asking Uthvir all kinds of things.

Spider-Man is unusually quiet, as they make their way along.

 _Is everything safe?_  Uthvir wonders.

 _…As can be,_ Spider-Man tells them.

 

~

 

Living at Selene and Felasel’s house is very different from travelling with their dad. But Uthvir likes it.

A few days after they get ‘settled in’, Selene tells them it’s time for them to try and start going to school again. Uthvir doesn’t really mind. Ms Hara says she’s going to be their teacher, and she seems very nice. They’re a little nervous about leaving Spider-Man behind, but they’re also worried that they’d get made fun of if they brought him. In the end they leave him in the fort, which now has the griffon sentry, and a lego jungle, and a race track Adannar set up with them all around it. Uthvir puts some wards in the griffon. They bend the rules a little to do that, because they do it in the living room, while Felasel is there, but he’s not really paying attention.

Or at least, he doesn’t seem to be. And he doesn’t mention it, either. Spider-Man says it’s technically in Selene’s rules, though, because Felasel’s a mage.

Ms Hara’s class ends up being pretty fun. Ms Hara introduces Uthvir, but she doesn’t make them talk much in front of all the other kids. They just say ‘hi’, and then the first lesson starts. They don’t really follow all of it, which is a little embarrassing. But Ms Hara says that it’s okay, they can just do what they think they can manage. At recess they get to and play with the other kids, who seem pretty nice. But at lunch Ms Hara has them sit with her and do a test, to figure out ‘where Uthvir is’, so that they can get caught up with the rest of the class.

When Felasel picks them up, he announces that a good first day of school means that Uthvir gets to pick out a treat from the bakery. The bakery they stop at is really tiny, and Felasel says it’s very old, but that they make the most delicious pies in the whole city. Uthvir picks out a donut from the display case, though, because it’s got  _white chocolate_  on it. And strawberries. And Uthvir  _really_  likes white chocolate and strawberries, especially when it’s all oozy and warm – and it is!

Felasel gets a tart, and they eat their treats on the way back to the house. Uthvir tries to be tidy, but they end up smears of strawberry jam and melted chocolate all over their face.

“Hmm,” Felasel says, looking at them as they pull into the driveway. “I should have put wet wipes in the car…”

They head inside, and Selene is waiting for them.

She looks at Uthvir, and sighs.

“ _Really_?” she asks Felasel. “There’s a veggies platter waiting in the fridge for you two.”

“It was only one donut,” Felasel says. “Uthvir almost certainly still has room.”

“I gotta go check on Spider-Man,” Uthvir announces, for their own part, and then heads off to do that first thing. He’s still where they left him, though, unharmed and Thinking Thinky Thoughts, like he does sometimes. Before they can do much more than ascertain that, then, Selene comes and gets them and tells them they can’t go running around covered in sticky stuff. She gets them cleaned up, and then they have another long talk about school stuff over their veggies, and homework, and what all Uthvir’s going to do and what Selene is going to help them with.

Which turns out to be a lot.

Uthvir’s pretty good at numbers and reading, but their handwriting is behind what it should be, and there are a lot of ‘gaps’ in what they know. Selene assures them that it’s okay, on several occasions, so they don’t worry about it too much. As long as they’re not in trouble, they figure, then it doesn’t matter a whole lot. When their dad comes back for them, they probably won’t be able to keep going to school anyway. They figure they can cram in as much useful information as they can, and then worry about the rest later. Learning to write better’s a good idea. Spider-Man tells them it’ll help them make their wards better, too.

They don’t see Adannar at school or after it that day, and then it’s the weekend. Selene says they’re going to have lessons on the weekend, though. They get to watch cartoons in the morning, and then she sits with them at the table, and they practice some lessons. Not just writing lines, either. Selene has a book called  _Learning Elvhen,_  and she opens it up and starts teaching Uthvir some of that, too.

The next day, they get to go to the park, though. Adannar comes along too, and Ms Hara, and their dog – who is actually the dog Uthvir first met and thought was Selene’s – and there’s also a girl named Ana, who’s in Adannar’s classes and lives just a block away. Uthvir’s not too sure about her at first, but she doesn’t make fun of them for bringing Spider-Man along, and she loans Uthvir one of her shovels to dig up pebbles with. The park is  _huge,_ with a big play set, and a trail, and a lookout post with a ladder that gives a view over the bigger portions of the park, that are all green, green trees. Felasel explains that the park lets onto a  _reserve,_  which is a big section of wild land that’s protected so it can stay wild.

“I wanna explore it,” Ana admits, when they abandon the play area in favour of throwing twigs down from the lookout station. “I bet there’s all kinds of neat things in there.”

“There’s a train that goes through there,” Adannar says. “We were learnin’ about it class! It’s a magic train, from underground an’ it goes all the way to the dwarf cities, an’ through tunnels in the reserve, an’ then up into the city depot!”

 _Dangerous,_  Spider-Man says.  _The tunnels will attract some creatures to try and nest in them. Damage to the rails from wyvern nests, or poor maintenance, could lead to the train crashing._

“What’s in the train?” Uthvir wonders.

“Lyrium, mostly,” Adannar says. “But sometimes nugs, too!”

_Move further back from the railing._

Sighing, Uthvir scoots back a bit. They want to go explore the tunnels and see the wild things, and the nugs!

_You will get eaten by jaguars._

“Are there ja… jageer… um. Big cats, in the reserve?” Uthvir wonders, floundering over Spider-Man’s word before he supplies them with a mental image.

“Yeah,” Adannar sagely informs them, and Ana nods, too. “But it’s okay, they don’t bother us if we don’t bother them. You’re not supposed to pet any if you see them, though. That’s what my Momma says, anyway, she says they’re not like big dogs. And you’re not supposed to pet big dogs, neither.”

Adannar manages to look like this is a great and terrible tragedy. But Spider-Man backs up the idea.

“My uncle says you never pet wild animals. Even if they don’t hurt you, you could hurt them by accident,” Ana adds. “But I wouldn’ pet any of the ones on the reserve, I’d just take pictures!”

They carry on talking about the reserve for a bit more, then, before Ana suggests they play Explorers. Uthvir’s never played that game before, but it’s a lot of fun. They run around the park and get all dirty and bury treasure in one of the sandboxes, and Ana finds a rock she says she’s going to keep, and Uthvir and Adannar discover a log with  _tons_  of ants underneath it. Spider-Man tells them not to touch any, though, and then Ms Hara comes and gets them and says it’s time to go home.

After the weekend, Uthvir has school again. And so it goes, for a whole week – they go to Ms Hara’s class, and they have study time with Selene. And sometimes Melarue comes and visits, and Felasel always comes and gets Uthvir from school, and is always on time. They play at Adannar’s house, or else Adannar comes and plays at theirs. They meet Adannar’s Papa, and Ana’s parents, and they have three meals a day plus snacks, and none of them are jerky or peanuts.

The second week comes, and Uthvir doesn’t think a lot about it, except that they  _really_  like staying with Selene and Felasel. And maybe, if they’re really good, their dad will let them do it again sometime.

Then the third week comes.

Then the fourth.

They start wondering, at that point.

Their dad’s never left them with some of his friends for this long before. Part of them thinks they should ask Selene or Felasel about it, but they don’t know how to do it without making it sound… bad, somehow. Like they want to leave, or they’re sick of them, or ungrateful. And Uthvir isn’t! They have toys and friends and it’s  _really nice_  here, and Selene is like a mom, and Felasel’s always sneaking them things and sometimes he asks to hug them just… out of the blue. And it’s nice. They have a fort and a griffon and a nintendo, and puzzles and stickers, and a big bed and they can do magic and go to Ms Hara’s class.

They don’t want to go.

But they don’t know what’s happened to their dad, either.

 _Forget about him,_  Spider-Man advises, one night, when Uthvir’s having troubles sleeping.

“I can’t do that! He’s my dad,” Uthvir objects, whispering. They know they’re not… not a  _good_ kid, but they’re not  _that_  bad. Sometimes they take things that don’t belong to them, but they don’t forget about people, and they’re not mean for no reason.

_You really should. He’s not a good father. He wasn’t last time, either._

“Shush,” Uthvir says. “He’s not bad, you’re just too picky!”

_Selene and Felasel treat you better._

“That’s ‘cause they’re rich,” they object. “…And really nice. But if Dad was rich, he’d be a lot nicer too, because then he wouldn’t have to worry about money all the time.”

_When he finished that job at the old lady’s house, was he nice?_

Uthvir stills, remembering their dad’s slurred speech, and raised voice. The way he locked them into the car and left them, and then came back, acting all funny and telling Uthvir to stop making noise. He was happy when he got paid, but he… he didn’t stay that way.

“…No,” they allow, quietly.

Spider-Man quiets down for a few minutes, then, and they hug him closer in the dark.

“What if Selene and Felasel stop wanting me, like Mom did?” they wonder. They’re like their dad, they know, and their dad’s not the best, but there’s a kind of security in that. Birds of a feather flock together. They remember their dad, sagely telling them, after they’d stopped crying, that the thing about ‘decent’ people was that they always got rid of the Uthvirs and Rhapsody’s in their lives. Like cleaning out the trash.

Spider-Man takes a while to answer.

 _You’ll still have me,_  he promises.  _And we have better odds with Selene and Felasel anyway. Rhapsody’s probably never coming back._

“Don’t  _say_  that!” they  beg.

Spider-Man stops.

Uthvir clutches him close, curling into a ball in the big  bed as they start crying, then. They try to keep quiet about it. But after a few minutes, the bedroom door opens. A crack of light spills into the room, and they burrow deeper into the covers. But they don’t really mind it when the mattress dips, and Selene starts gently running a hand up and down their back.

“What’s the matter?” she asks, when their sniffles have died down.

Uthvir curls up a little more, and hides their face in Spider-Man’s tummy.

“Where… where’s my dad?” they finally manage to ask.

Selene’s hand goes still against their back for a minute. And then she pats them again.

“He had to go on a long trip,” she says. “And the truth is, Uthvir, that he hadn’t been taking the best care of you. So, since Felasel and I wanted to have you around  _so badly_  – and Melarue does, too – we asked if he’d let you stay with us. And he said yes.”

Uthvir closes their eyes.

“He stopped wanting me,” they know, now. Just like their mom. She stopped wanting Uthvir after their dad came back, and after Uthvir… after they gave him the cards from her purse. Because he asked them to, and he said it was an emergency, and you’re  _supposed_  to help people when it’s an emergency.

They knew it was bad though. Going into Mom’s purse without permission.

But they did it anyway.

Just like all the grifting, and stealing, and lying. Just like their dad.

Except now even  _he_  doesn’t want them anymore. And someday Selene and Felasel are going to figure out that they don’t want Uthvir, either. And then what will they do?

 _Survive,_  Spider-Man says.

But then his voice gets all muffled. Quiet. Not like he’s gone away, but like someone’s just thrown a blanket over his head. Except he’s still smushed up against Uthvir’s face. They swallow, and pull back a little; and Selene reaches over, and smooths some of the hair away from their forehead.

Her eyes look funny. Just for a second. Like they’re too bright.

“I think that’s enough fear, for one night,” she murmurs. “Don’t you worry, Uthvir. We’ll look after you. We’re not going to get tired of you, or decide you aren’t worth our time. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done, or what you think you’ve done. You can stay with us as long as you need to. Forever, if you want. Do you want to stay with us?”

They blink, and roll over a little. Selene rests a hand against the side of their face, as they fidget with Spider-Man.

They manage a nod.

Selene smiles.

“Good,” she says. “You’re family, Uthvir. We should have mentioned that from the start, I think. But you belong with us as much as you belong with anyone.”

Uthvir lets out a breath.

Family?

They’re related?

They thought… well. Their dad  _does_  have a pretty big family, but they thought nobody in it was rich? But maybe Selene and Felasel just got their big break. Like the one their parents always seemed to be waiting for. Their mom was always waiting for one, and then their dad was, too.

“I’ll be good,” they promise. They will be. They’ll be on their best behaviour, and then Selene and Felasel won’t have any reason to get rid of them.

“Good or bad, you’re our Uthvir,” Selene tells them. Then she smiles, just a little, and bops their nose.

They make a sound of protest when it tickles, and hide their face back in Spider-Man. Who’s still all muffled, but he doesn’t seem to be upset or anything. Selene sits with them until they fall asleep again, drifting away as the awful feeling inside of them starts to ease up, and they’re left just with an overwhelming sense of being  _tired._

When they wake up the next morning, everything feels a little bit like a dream. But they find it’s a lot easier to not worry about their dad coming to get them, now – whether he will, or won’t. Instead they find that they’re uncommonly excited to have their breakfast, and watch their cartoons, and go to school, and do all kinds of things. Things that they normally like to do anyway, but today, it seems like everything they want – and get – is extra important, and easy to focus on.

Spider-Man is grumpy, though.

 _Meddling Des,_  he mutters.

 _What’s that?_  Uthvir wonders.

 _Incautious,_  Spider-Man tells them, which usually means he’s just in a Mood. Uthvir leaves him with their pokemon games when they set him up in the fort, so he can play them if he gets bored, and maybe be in a better mood when they get home.

_Home._

It’s getting really easy to think of this place like that.

 

~

 

Uthvir gets to know Melarue pretty well before they meet any of their kids.

They know Melarue  _has_  kids. Three of them, named Aelynthi, Serahlin, and Thenvunin. But they live a lot further out of the city, at a house that’s near to a lake, and a special healing center that helps with… some kind of problems, although Uthvir’s not clear on the specifics. They don’t think about it too much, there’s enough for them to try and figure out as it is, and Melarue’s nice even if they act a little strangely sometimes.

After a few months with Selene and Felasel, though, Uthvir’s birthday rolls around.

They don’t tell Selene and Felasel about it, but the two seem to know when it is anyway. Selene tells them they can have a party, if they want to, with a cake and games and balloons and everything, and Uthvir gets really excited for it. One the weekend before, Adannar and Ana come over, and they all make invitations together out of construction paper and glitter. Uthvir has twelve invitations that they’re allowed to decorate however they want, as long as they remember to put the party time on the invitation, and they’re also allowed to give out the invitations to whoever they like.

They make one with a smiling sunflower on it and give it to Adannar, and one with a bunch of trees on it and give it to Ana, for starts. They make those invitations before Ana and Adannar come over, and then the two of them help write and decorate the other ones. Uthvir gets to pick out what flavour of cake they want, too,  _and_  what kind of balloons. Selene has a catalogue they get to choose things from, and they sit together and look at the whole thing.

When Uthvir goes to school the next day, then, they have ten invitations left that they can give out. They give one to Ms Hara, and one each to the kids who sit at either side of them at the colouring table. And they give four more out at recess, which leaves them with three leftover. They think maybe they should give them to Adannar’s Papa and Ana’s parents, because they’re nice. But Felasel tells them that grown-ups don’t need invitations, so long as their kids are invited.

“You can invite more kids from your class tomorrow,” he suggests.

“Okay,” Uthvir agrees.

But when they get home, and they’re playing with some legos in their fort, Spider-Man has a different suggestion.

_You should give one to Thenvunin._

Uthvir blinks, pausing in the midst of putting together a lego mountain. They pick up Spider-Man, and settle him in front of them. Thenvunin’s the name of one of Melarue’s kids. They remember, because they overheard Selene and Melarue talking about him getting his braces changed.

 _How come?_  they wonder.

 _Because, he is important,_  Spider-Man says.  _We need to help keep him safe._

Uthvir blinks again.

“Safe from what?” they ask, quietly.

 _Bad people,_  Spider-Man tells them.  _Dangers. Monsters. Inadequately secured facilities. Improperly prepared food. There are a lot of things that could harm him, and that would be disastrous. He is very important._

“Why’s he so important, Spider-Man?”

 _Because he is,_  Spider-Man says.

Uthvir can’t get anything clearer out of him than that. But he seems very convinced of it, and really adamant, in fact. So, after a while, they give up trying. Maybe it’s like when someone is the kid of a very important person on superhero shows, and they get kidnapped by bad guys a lot, or threatened, or something. Melarue seems like they could be a very important person. Like Bruce Wayne, maybe. And maybe Thenvunin gets kidnapped a lot, so Spider-Man wants to help?

But in that case, probably  _all_  of Melarue’s kids are important.

After they’ve finished playing, Uthvir goes and finds Selene. She’s working at her desk, so they go and wait beside it, until she’s done with typing.

It only takes a few minutes. Then she looks over at them and smiles.

“What do you need, da’len?” she asks.

“Can I mail something?” Uthvir wonders.

Selene’s brows furrow, just a little bit.

“Of course. But who do you want to mail something to?” she asks them.

Uthvir lifts up their three birthday invitations, and Selene looks worried again, for a second. Until they explain.

“I wanna send these to Melarue’s kids,” they say.

Her face clears, and Selene turns her chair so she can face them fully.

“Melarue’s kids? You want to invite them to your party?” she asks.

“Yeah. Is that okay?” they check. They realize they don’t even know how old Melarue’s kids are. They could be big kids; bigger than Adannar and Ana, even. Or they could be really little, too.

“Of course it is. But is there a reason you want to?” Selene asks them, taking the invitations from them.

Uthvir can only really manage a shrug. Sometimes explaining Spider-Man to grown-ups – or even to other kids – is tricky.

“Well, Melarue is already coming, so I’m sure they won’t mind at all. We can give them the invitations when they come visit tomorrow, and then they can give them to their kids. It’ll probably be quicker than mailing them,” Selene explains. “Although we can still mail them, if you prefer…”

“I wanna mail them,” Uthvir requests. Mailing them would make it more Official, probably. Doing things the Official way matters for important people, they’re pretty sure. “Do you think they’ll come?”

Selene smiles.

“Probably,” she tells them.

And then she shows Uthvir how to put the invitations into envelopes, so that they can mail them to Melarue’s house. Spider-Man seems satisfied about it, and doesn’t bring it up again. So Uthvir lets themselves get swept away in the excitement of anticipating the party. Felasel goes and gets a trampoline for the backyard, and they set up lots of games and a treasure hunt, and they’re going to have pizza and play video games and do all  _kinds_  of things.

 _Be careful,_  Spider-Man keeps saying.  _Don’t jump on the trampoline, it’s dangerous. Watch where you’re running. Make sure the cake isn’t poisoned. Don’t let any bigger kids stand behind you._

But that’s the usual stuff, so Uthvir mostly ignores him, unless he gets really insistent about it. And by the time the weekend rolls around, Uthvir’s practically vibrating out of their skin.

Their birthday cake comes from the bakery that they’ve started thinking of as the After School Bakery. It’s got Spider-Man riding a triceratops and wielding twin scimitars on it. Adannar and Ana are the first to arrive for the party, and they’ve both got presents, which they have to put on the present table because Uthvir’s not supposed to open anything until all the guests have come. They play out in the backyard while they wait for the other kids and parents to arrive.

The kids from school come next. And then there are some surprise guests; a lady turns up who’s friends with Selene and Felasel, and she’s got two little boys with her, named Victory and Tasallir. Selene asks if Uthvir thinks it’s okay if they join in on the fun, and they don’t mind. Tasallir is really quiet, but Victory smiles a lot and thinks Uthvir’s cake is really neat, and Adannar says that they’ve played together before and that he’s really nice.

Melarue comes just when Uthvir thinks they’re going to  _burst_  if they don’t open their presents soon.

Uthvir hears the sound of more tires in the driveway, and they go and look out that window. Melarue’s mini-van is dark blue, and shiny. The kids who come out of it are all dressed really nice. There’s one kid with really long, dark hair, in a striped pink dress, and another with short brown hair in a green and blue suit, and finally a third kid, with long blond hair done up in pigtails, and big dental braces on, and shiny purple tights underneath a fluffy feather dress.

 _Thenvunin,_  Spider-Man whispers, from where Uthvir left him upstairs.

He feels really intent about it. The sense of  _importance_  to everything is big enough to make Uthvir nervous, but…

 _He looks like my angry swan keychain,_  Uthvir can’t help but think. All puffy and stuff. It’s the dress, probably. It makes him look like a plushie with skinny purple legs sticking out of the bottom, and then braces look kinda like a beak, too.

Uthvir watches as the whole progression makes their way up to the front door, and then they move away from the window. Selene answers, when the bell rings, and greets everyone really happily. And then she calls for Uthvir, and they go. Trying to resist the urge to fidget or pull up their collar, as she introduces them to Serahlin, and Aelynthi, and Thenvunin.

They’re all carrying presents, too.

“Thank you for inviting us to your party,” Serahlin says, and shows Uthvir hers, before she puts it on the table. Her brothers follow suit. Her hair is dark, like Melarue’s, and Aelynthi’s got Melarue’s pretty eyes. But Thenvunin doesn’t look anything at all like his nanae. He blinks at Uthvir, when he hands them a big box in orange and yellow paper.

“You’re not really drethed up,” he notes, talking funny around his braces. “Did you forget to put on your party clothe?”

Uthvir looks down at themselves. They’re wearing new clothes; a t-shirt with a scorpion on it and red shorts and matching footwraps.

“No,” they say. “There’s a trampoline.” Spider-Man told them it would be dangerous to wear too much stuff if they were bouncing around. They could  _asphyxiate_  themselves.

“I’m not allowed to go on trampolinetheth,” Thenvunin tells them, frowning worriedly. He glances at Melarue, but they just smile.

“You can bounce a little, da’vhenan, as long as I’m there to supervise,” they say. “And Uthvir’s got a lot of other fun things to do at their party. Don’t worry, everyone’s just here to play and celebrate.”

“There’s cake, too,” Uthvir offers.

“Nanae says you have the new pokemon games,” Aelynthi interjects. “Do you wanna to trade?”

“Okay!” they agree. “I’ll go get them!”

They head upstairs, and as they’re rummaging around in their things, Spider-Man tells them to bring him back down with them.

 _No,_  they say.  _Those are bigger kids, they’ll make fun of me if I’m carrying a doll everywhere!_

 _Adannar and Ana don’t make fun of you,_  Spider-Man says.

 _Yeah, but they **could** ,_ Uthvir argues.

 _I need to be able to watch things,_  Spider-Man insists.

Uthvir sighs, and scoops him up, and plops him on the windowsill in their bedroom. It looks out over the backyard.

“ _There,”_  they say. “Now can I go have my birthday party?”

 _…Acceptable,_  Spider-Man determines.

Uthvir dashes back down to the party, then, pokemon games in hand. Ana likes to play too, and so the two of them and Aelynthi spend some time talking about it, while Victory and Adannar bounce on the trampoline, and Thenvunin just seems to follow Melarue around a lot. The kids from school are playing MarioKart on the big television. After a few minutes, though, Selene says it’s time to open presents, and then have pizza and cake.

Uthvir almost can’t believe the size of the present pile.

Some of it’s kind of boring stuff, like clothes and towels and footwraps. But they also get a set of really pretty bookmarks from Ana, and a new sticker book from Adannar, and some marbles and an electric toothbrush with Spider-Man on it, and some dinosaur sponges that grow in the bath, all from the kids at school. Felasel and Selene give them a new bike to practice riding on, and Melarue gives them a watch that’s got buttons that let them set  _timers._

Spider-Man really likes that present.

The present from Serahlin has washable face paints in it, and the present from Aelynthi is a bunch of really cool foam modelling stuff, and the box from Thenvunin has three books in it. All of them say they’re from the Young Adventure Spies series. Which is good, because Uthvir can use Ana’s bookmarks in them. They thank Thenvunin, and everyone else, but they mostly get distracted by the bicycle. They’ve never ridden one before. Some of the other kids want to try it out, but it’s  _their_  bike, and they say no. Things start to get tense but then the pizza arrives, and distracts everyone all over again.

Uthvir makes sure they sit down next to Thenvunin, when they’ve got their slice of ham and pineapple.

“Do you like spy stuff?” they wonder.

Thenvunin glances at them, uncertain.

“Um. Yeth,” he says. “Thothe bookth are good bookth! You thould read them, they aren’t very popular but they’re  _geniuth_.”

Uthvir nods. They suppose an important person, who might get kidnapped a lot, would be interested in spy stories. Spy stories  _always_  have people getting captured and taken hostage and things.

“Have you ever been kidnapped?” they wonder.

Thenvunin’s eyes widen.

“…No?” he says. “Have  _you?”_

“No,” they admit. “One time I had to pretend to be kidnapped, though! It was for a job.”

Thenvunin’s eyes widen further.

“That’th not true, you’re making it up!” he accuses.

Uthvir frowns at him.

“No I’m not!” they counter.

“Yeth you are. Kidth don’t work  _jobth,_ ”Thenvunin insists.

Uthvir shrugs.

“It was my dad’s job. I was just helpin’,” they explain.

Thenvunin looks a little less certain of his accusation, at that.

“What kinda job maketh people pretend to be kidnapped?” he asks, then.

Uthvir hesitates. They know what kinds of jobs, of course, but those kinds of jobs are also pretty bad. They don’t really want Thenvunin to think they’re bad. Spider-Man says Thenvunin’s important, and if they’re supposed to look out for him, then it’d be pretty hard to that if he thought they were trouble or something.

And besides, they remember, they’re not really supposed to talk about jobs.

But Thenvunin’s waiting, and if they don’t give him an answer, then he’s going to think they really  _were_  making it up.

“It was for a  _con,”_  Uthvir admits, at last, leaning in close to whisper.

They wouldn’t have thought Thenvunin’s eyes could get any bigger, but somehow, they do.

“What are two talking about over there?” Selene asks, from where she’s helping Serahlin pick out a pizza slice.

“Spy books,” Uthvir immediately covers.

Thenvunin keeps on staring at them, then, as they lift up their ham-and-pineapple and take a bite.

“It’s really good,” they say. “And I don’ think it’s poisoned, either!”

Thenvunin blinks, and stares at them a bit more, before finally turning back to his own pizza.

“I can’t…” he starts, but then Melarue comes over.

“Alright, like let’s fix this so you can eat it,” they say.

Thenvunin glances at Uthvir, and then turns bright red as Melarue starts cutting up his pizza into tiny bites. Important people usually have someone come and fuss with their food, though, so Uthvir doesn’t think a whole lot about it.

After pizza, there’s cake. And then more games and running around and playing. Thenvunin does end up bouncing on the trampoline a couple of times, and Uthvir opens up their face paints, and everyone ends up getting stuff painted on them by the grown-ups. Except for Aelynthi, who insists on painting his own face with a mirror.

And then one of the balloons pops outside, and startles one of the kids from school really badly. He ends up crying, and his mom comes to take him home; and that seems to signal the end of the party, for the most part. Everyone starts going home. Melarue has to take their kids back because they have extra classes they do on the weekend, and Ana’s parents finish work and pick her up, and Adannar ends up being the last one to leave because Ms Hara offers to stay and help clean up. Adannar’s papa ended up not coming, because someone needed to watch the baby at their house.

Uthvir’s really tired by then, and they go in their room and retrieve Spider-Man from the windowsill, and flop down with Adannar in the fort.

“That was good birthday party!” Adannar enthuses. “Can I have one of the balloons to take home, to show my sister?”

Adannar’s new baby sister is too tiny to appreciate most things, but she likes bright colours and shiny stuff.

“Sure!” they agree. “But not the big Spider-Man one, that one’s mine.”

“Okay,” Adannar says. “I’ll take one of the ones with the smiley faces on it.”

They nod in approval, and then grin up at the top of their fort. They’ve had to rebuild it a few times, but each time makes it better, and it’s always fun.

 _We should invite Thenvunin over again. It would be easier to watch him here,_  Spider-Man says.

 _What’s so special about him?_  Uthvir wonders. Somehow, actually meeting him has just made them more curious than they were before.

Spider-Man doesn’t really seem to be able to articulate it, though. There’s just this feeling, of something big, and that matters a lot. Something that feels like it’s juuuust on the edge of turning out bad, though. Like a job, Uthvir thinks, like when they could succeed and do good, or mess it up and have everything be a disaster.

They suck in a breath through their nose, and let it out again.

“Whassa matter?” Adannar asks them.

“D’you know how come Melarue’s kids are important?” Uthvir wonders.

Adannar’s brow furrows, just a little.

“How do you mean?” he wonders. “’Cause my Papa says every kid is important.”

“I dunno,” they admit. “Spider-Man says Thenvunin’s really important, but he can’t explain why.”

“Oh,” Adannar replies.

They both go silent for a minute, then. Thinking.

“I think Serahlin might be a secret a princess,” Adannar finally admits. “Maybe they all are? Maybe they’re from Narnia. I think Melarue would be from there. Like the White Witch, but nice! An’ so they didn’t… they weren’t mean to the kids they found. They adopted them instead.”

Uthvir considers this prospect.

Hidden royalty  _would_  explain how someone was important. And if it’s a secret, then maybe nobody can really say?

“That’s neat,” they decide.

Adannar giggles.

His mom calls for him, then. Uthvir helps him get past the guard griffon on his way out, before they curl back up in the cushions.

 _Is Thenvunin a secret prince?_  they ask Spider-Man.

 _No. He is important,_  Spider-Man reiterates.

They sigh.

 

~

 

The first time Mirena meets Melarue, it’s because she finds them wasted in her backyard.

She’s not quite sure who they are or what they’re drunk  _on,_  but she knows the signs when she sees them. There’s a five minute period of contemplation, as she looks out her back windows, where she considers phoning the police. Or making a run for her car and driving to her parents’ house, and calling the police from  _there._  Standard procedure for a young elven woman with a complete stranger invading her property, probably.

But Melarue doesn’t really strike her as intimidating. They look, if anything… chilly. And lonely. And not just a little bit lost.

There’s something about their face, too. Something that reminds Mirena of her own reflection.

She puts on her coat, and grabs the mace from her purse – just in case – and heads out into the yard instead. Melarue is leaning against one of the empty planters she bought a week ago; she’s had the house for a little less than year, and with the kitchen in working order, she can finally focus on making the garden a liveable space, too.

“Excuse me,” she calls. “Are you aware that you are on private property, Messere?”

Melarue looks at her, then, and their eyes seem to freeze her to the spot for a moment. There’s so much…  _grief_ , in that look. And a little fear, and a lot of exhaustion. Their cheeks are flushed but their skin looks clammy, almost sick, and in the dark their eyes seem black.

And wet.

“I can’t remember,” they say.

Mirena feels her chest clench, and despite what common sense would have her do, she moves a little closer.

“Can’t remember what?” she asks, gently as she can. She can smell just the faintest hint of lyrium in the air. An elf, and a mage, and a stranger, but that last part doesn’t seem to matter at the moment. Melarue’s arms are burnt. Sure signs of a spell gone awry, although what it was and what it was meant to do is harder to tell.

Should she call for an ambulance?

The nearest hospital is chantry run, though, in Val Colline. Not a bad place but they’ll know magical damage when they see it, and then they’ll report it. That will bring in the police and investigations and tonight, Mirena thinks, she’s disinclined to heap such things onto an addled and inebriated stranger, still clutching the side of her nicest planter.

Melarue chuckles, but it’s mirthless.

“I remember their hands, but I can’t remember… can’t…”

They slump over. Very tentatively, Mirena ventures a touch to their arm.

 _Freezing_  cold.

‘On the verge of dying from exposure’ cold, in fact.

“Alright,” Mirena says. “That’s alright, it doesn’t matter. Memory’s a tricky thing. You just come inside with me, now, and let’s get you warmed up. What’s your name?”

Melarue sighs, and doesn’t answer. Not at first. But they let Mirena help them to their feet. There are bruises under their eyes and more burns on their clothes, an acrid scent that’s probably melted synthetic fibres clinging to them. Mirena wouldn’t have thought it characteristic of herself – her efforts towards charity are usually more along the lines of donating old clothes to thrift stores and making blankets for shelters, not plucking people up off the street – but it is what it is, she supposes.

She takes them inside, and ends up heating them a bowl of soup, and running a lukewarm bath, and dragging a jar of antiseptic ointment out of her cabinet, along with several bandages. She doesn’t get to the point of literally patching up their wounds, though. After a few minutes Melarue starts applying the ointment themselves, covering the worst of their visible burns with waterproof bandaids.

Then they sigh, and sag, and Mirena manages to prod them into the bathroom.

She doesn’t consider that they might drown themselves in her tub until halfway through the bath. But when she knocks on the door, they answer. And when they emerge from the steam, they look, again, vaguely familiar. But not in a way that makes her suspicious. It’s more, she thinks, like they’re a ghost that has walked out of a nostalgia she cannot place. A place she only misses in her imagination.

The colour in their cheeks looks a little healthier, though, and the light in their eyes is a bit more clear, too.

“I apologize for my intrusion,” they offer.

MIrena would say it’s no trouble, except that seems disingenuous.

“Apology accepted,” she offers, instead. “I have a spare room…”

Melarue’s lips twist.

“And you would offer to the vagabond you found wilting over your plant pots?” they wonder. “That doesn’t seem very prudent.”

“I am twenty-one and willful, and according to my father, a little imprudence is only to be expected,” she replies, brashly. If she is going to be unwise, at the very least she thinks she should do it wholeheartedly. A half measure at this point would just make her seem like a ditz. “And I know how to burn the eyebrows off of impolite guests, who get silly ideas into their heads.”

Melarue smiles at her, wistful and worn.

“I should go,” they say. “I should…”

They hesitate.

Mirena raises an eyebrow.

“Well it’s not as if I’d lock you up,” she replies. “And I have some work to do this evening. If you feel the streets are more pleasant than the racket of a sewing machine for the next four hours, I won’t blame you. But you should at least let your hair dry.”

The argument seems to stick, for some reason or another. But rather than holing up in the guest room, Melarue ends up on Mirena’s workroom sofa. Drifting off, it seems, as her machine hums and she loses some of her focus in the rhythm of her work. Testing out a new pattern for her online store. If all goes well, she plans on getting her mother to model it. Plus-sized fashion for elves is so  _dowdy._  It is for humans too, really, and she has plans to expand her market. Pretty underwear is her next goal, but her mother won’t be modelling that.

She ends up staying awake later than she meant to. It’s well past midnight by the time she’s finished with the dress, and by then she’s almost forgotten the stranger sleeping on her sofa.

When she remembers again, and checks on them, they’re thoroughly unconscious. Their head heavy against the couch cushions, features slack, arms curled.

In the morning, Mirena makes steak and eggs, and asks if they’d like to work for her as a model.

It turns out to be a better decision than she expected. Her first thought is that she could take some photos of them in her slimmer lines, but as it shakes out, Melarue is an accomplished shapeshifter, and knows how to work a camera far better than Mirena would have guessed. They come and go, for the first six months. Sometimes Mirena thinks they’re just going to up and leave, and she never does find out what happened the night they met. Why they were in her garden, or how they got hurt. But eventually, bit by bit, something in them seems to settle. Their image graces the pages of Mirena’s online store in a multitude of forms. Business booms. A year into the proceedings, they stop disappearing in the evenings. The spare room becomes, unofficially,  _their_ room. They start coming along to events. Gracing Mirena’s arm, usually dressed in her best designs, and getting along fabulously with her contacts and acquaintances.

It’s the oddest friendship Mirena has ever made, but in the end it suits her, and she feels an inordinate amount of satisfaction every time Melarue seems to come more and more out of their strange shell.

And if, sometimes, she sees their eyes looking strangely hollow in reflections, or notes the way that their shadow tends to curl strangely in their hair. If she sees them shift and recognizes that there is just a little too  _much_  skill, and deftness, and ease with changing their form; if she catches them, one stray morning, tracing their fingers over the lines of their own face, as if they are memorizing angles…

Well.

That’s really none of her business.

Two years in, and Melarue is not the kind of person  _anyone_  would expect to find inebriated in a stranger’s backyard. Not unless the most uproarious sort of party was involved first. They seem to love buying Mirena’s parents gifts and going out to the theatre. They charm their landlord into lowering the rent on their little townhouse, and start taking other jobs. Modelling and organizing stores, and before long they’re helping to sell Mirena’s lines in more ways than one, and by the third year Mirena has a proper workshop and she and Melarue are often flying to places like Val Royeaux, and Par Vollen, and Antiva City, and Arlathan.

When she’s feeling whimsical, Mirena thinks it’s almost like a fairy story. But Melarue, for all their quirks and oddities, is not a fairy. Just a person, and a dear friend.

Mirena dates, of course. There’s Elandaris, who turns out to be an irritating disaster, and there’s Nadas, who stops answering her calls after a while. Charlain, who is human and lovely and gets so seethingly jealous of Melarue that Mirena gets bored with her in very short order. And more, relationships that seem to flit by without sticking, as business  booms and Mirena wonders if it’s true what they say, about women having to choose between love and careers.

She doesn’t dwell on it, though. She’s picky, and she knows it. She wants someone who is gorgeous, who is dedicated, who is skilled. Someone who worships the ground she walks on without being a doormat, and who doesn’t feel threatened but who isn’t too distant, who likes sex and romance but doesn’t whine when she needs to spend a week more obsessed with her sewing machine than her love life. It’s a tall order, but the more time passes the less inclined she is to settle, and if anything, the longer the list gets, until she almost begins to wonder if she’s just adding to it so that she won’t even have to try looking anymore.

One of her clients sends her a bouquet of white roses, with a romantic poem attached.

Mirena smiles, and fluffs the roses, and deposits the poem into a trash bin.

“I want to have a baby,” she decides.

Melarue looks up from where they’d been checking their e-mail, in the workshop-slash-office that they’d somehow found phenomenally low rent on.

“What, right now?” they ask.

She considers it.

“No. In two years,” she decides. “Two years from now would be a good time. By then we’ll have expanded things enough that I can make do with design work and a few shows, and the business won’t suffer too badly. And I can actually spend time on a baby. I’ll need to, if I’m a single parent. Unless you want to help?”

She means the last offer almost jokingly; but Melarue’s expression actually turns contemplative.

“Would you mind if I did?” they wonder.

Mirena blinks.

“What, you want to help me raise a baby?” she checks.

They smile.

“I helped you raise a company. A baby seems like an interesting evolution on that theme,” they reason. “Maybe I’ll have one, too. Then we can have a matched set. Dress them up in themed outfits and go for jaunts in the park together.”

She laughs.

Two years later, though, the conversation is serious, and is in fact several conversations. Do they really want to raise a child together? More than one child? Do they want to  _make_  a child together? Where would they live, how would they handle the business, who would do what and how much time would they need?

Mirena’s hesitant over the notion of them actually  _both_  being pregnant at the same time. But Melarue makes some good counterpoints, mentions that they have enough leeway that, if they moved to some place a little further out from the city, they could hire some help and be just fine. And having the children at the same time means taking leave at the same time, and they have more models, now, more designers and branches that they really  _could_  do it.

It’s exciting, in a way. A little unexpected. Two single friends just up and having their children together.

In the end Mirena, picks a donor from a list. She’s not sure if Melarue does the same or quite how they choose to go about it, but to her only-mild irritation, they manage to conceive a few months before she does.

They also manage to find them a little place just outside of Arlathan, with a good hospital and healing center, and lots of parks and greenery and quaint little family houses. It’s mostly human neighbourhoods, but there are a few good elven communities, too, including a temple and some Dalish trade stores. Mirena’s mother falls in love with a little pink house that their real estate agent shows them, and her parents end up moving into it while she and Melarue take a larger home within walking distance of the school. There’s a room above the garage that’s a perfect workshop, and four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and an overgrown jungle of a garden. The basement’s unfinished, but the bedrooms are all on the ground floor, and Mirena likes that. Likes that she can be right across the hall from their babies, and not have to worry about taking little ones up and down too many stairs.

But just when she’s settling into things, Melarue seems to start flitting off in fits of anxiety.

Mood swings, nightmares, and nebulous fears are normal for pregnancy, Mirena knows. Still, it’s a little surprising, how Melarue seems so suddenly ruffled; so adamant that they need to go and get every tiny thing checked out by healers and physicians. And not even just to do with the babies. Mirena ends up having more medical-types prod at her than she can recollect, in an effort to assuage their concerns. Checking the development, checking  _her,_ running tests and ‘indulging the First Time Pregnant People’, in much of their manner.

She’s not actually expecting them to find anything. After all, she’s young, she’s healthy, she doesn’t have any chronic conditions or particularly bad habits, nothing to make her think otherwise. She conceived comparatively easily, and Melarue’s tests all come back with nothing but good news.

She’s… she’s not actually expecting them to  _find_  anything.

But they do.

Mirena spends the first night, after finding out, curled up in Melarue’s bed. Wondering if she should end her pregnancy. They’d still have Melarue’s baby, after all, and they’re going to raise their babies together. They’ve decided on that, no matter what else is true. But that’s not the choice she wants to make. There are options, alternatives, treatments. Mirena curls a hand around her stomach, and Melarue pulls her up close, and wraps their arms around her. Brushing their fingers through her hair. Saying just the right things, it seems. That they’ll fight for the baby. That it’s alright, they want to try, too. That they’re not daunted, not disappointed. That they don’t think it’s selfish, to risk what might happen.

Mirena doesn’t want her baby to suffer.

But she wants to try.

As she’s drifting off to sleep, Melarue whispers in her ear, in a voice that echoes oddly.

“He’ll be so bright, darling,” they say. “He’s a fighter. He’s got so much fight in him, it’ll be a trial to keep him from fighting  _himself._  But he’s sweet and good and the world will be better with him in it. I promise you.”

It’s a nice image.

“What makes you think it’s a boy?” Mirena murmurs, mostly to be contrary.

“Hope,” Melarue says. “I like the idea of him. Don’t you?”

Mirena doubts either of them really care about the gender, but after a minute, she nods anyway. It  _is_  a nice picture. And since neither of them are men, well – perhaps at least one boy would balance things out.

Or maybe two. Two little boys, in their twin pram, and their cribs, and their parents’ arms.

The next day, Mirena heads for the healers for her first treatment at six am, sharp.

It’s  _nauseating._

She has to go in for monitoring every week, and healing sessions three times a week, to make sure that her baby’s bones develop correctly, and that nothing else turns foul, and that there are no complications from the magic or from further issues. The spellwork on her body leaves her own magic antsy and odd, and prone to strange little flare-ups. Nothing really dangerous, but she ends up breaking her favourite tea mug and disintegrating several sketches, and accidentally freezing a bottle of fish sauce.

The process also leaves her prone to nausea and losing her balance. So she ends spending a lot of time sitting down and reading things, doing most of her work with laptop on the living room coffee table, and her parents coming and going so they can fuss over her and Melarue alike.

Melarue seems not quite sure how to react to this sudden coddling, at times shying away from it, and at others tilting towards it almost like a starved sunflower, grasping for daylight.

Mirena’s father paints the ceiling of their nursery a soft, sweet yellow-gold, with swirls of sky blue at the edges, and makes two mobiles. Both with little round-bellied birds of all different colours, drifting around one another in rising and falling circles.

In the end, Melarue’s pregnancy lasts longer, but Aelynthi still comes into the world first. Screaming his lungs out and waving tiny fists like he absolutely objects to the discomfort of being handled by the midwife. Mirena is fully on bed rest by then, but her parents go with Melarue, and she watches the birth on a camera, sitting in her bed and itching to hold their new baby. Her hands curl around her own stomach, and she waits and waits, until she feels a kick, and something in her settles.

“You’ll want to come out soon, too,” she tells their second one. “Come and see us.”

She has to wait until Aelynthi comes home to hold him. He’s all soft and precious, in his buttercream onesie, with eyes that have settled into his nanae’s beautiful colours, and the most perfect little ears. Mirena has troubles getting over them. They look like tiny pink leaves.

“Oh, Mel, he’s  _perfect,”_  she says.

Melarue takes him back, and goes completely teary over him.

“He is,” they say. “He is, he is perfect. My Aelynthi.”

Mirena hesitates, then. Worried, for a moment, because for all their support and all their efforts, Thenvunin is not going to come out with so few complications.

But in the end, he is no less perfect.

Mirena goes into labour in the morning, while Melarue is feeding Aelynthi, and a light rain is pelting over their rooftop and making the kind of ambient sounds that usually relax Mirena. It makes her more aware of the ways in which her body  _isn’t_  falling into its usual routines, and at this stage she doesn’t chance anything. Her father stays with Aelynthi, while her mother and Melarue drive her to the hospital.

Her labour is quicker, because they don’t fuss around and instead go straight for the C-section, as per the plan worked out with her doctors and healers. Mirena is awake for all of it, in pain and worried, unsure if things are going well or if it’s all a disaster and no one is telling her. They whisk Thenvunin away so quickly that she panics, terrified that he’s dead, that she can’t hear him crying. Aelynthi cried so  _loudly_. But then Melarue takes her hands, and she dreams that she’s holding him, and everything is peaceful and quiet. A strange little moment, almost prophet-feeling, before it slips away and she finds that she can breathe again.

Melarue goes after the doctors and healers, goes after Thenvunin, while her mother stays and tells her it’s alright. It’s alright, her baby’s alive, he’s breathing, he’s so  _beautiful,_  Mirena.

It seems to take an eternity for Melarue to come back with him.

But they do.

He’s swaddled up tightly, but he’s breathing on his own. His heartbeat is strong, and he’ll need some more medical help as it goes along. But he doesn’t need to be put in intensive care, either. He’s smaller than Aelynthi, but when he finally gets going, Mirena’s sure his cries are just as loud.

Melarue puts him in her arms, and she loses any last thread of decorum she might have been holding onto.

He’s here. He’s safe. They have their babies, both of them, and they’re going to look after them.

The vice that first settled around her heart when she found out there were complications feels like it clenches, and then, every-so-gently, lets go.

Their second son has downy blonde wisps of hair, and eyes that turn from blue to green. Mirena loves both boys so much it’s dizzying, if not overwhelming. They set them up in the nursery together, initially, but the two of them keep waking each other up. So before long they end up turning the guest bedroom into another nursery, to try and get a few spare minutes of peace in the house. Melarue agrees to split parental duties evenly with Mirena, but somehow, they always seem to already be awake whenever crying rings through the household in the middle of the night.

And even so tiny, it’s apparent that the boys have their own individual personalities. Thenvunin is the fussier of the two – Mirena also thinks that he’s the least comfortable at any given moment, though, so she doesn’t blame him. He needs little braces for his arms and legs, to keep them growing in the right direction, and even though he’s usually the first to kick up a complaint, he’s also the easiest to distract.

Aelynthi, by contrast, is more prone to staring at things before crying at them. Once he gets going, though, he’s much harder to deter. He also hates being left alone, and so when Thenvunin finally catches up to him in sleeping through the night, they move the two back into the same nursery again. Although most nights, Mirena’s pretty sure that Melarue abducts them both, and settles in with them in the rocking chair in their room; or else in the bed. Sometimes the four of them curl up together. Usually on the nights after Thenvunin’s had to go back to the hospital again, for his check-ins, mostly. Then Mirena can’t sleep unless she’s got him in her arms, and if she’s got one then she wants the other, too, and Melarue always seems to gravitate in, until the two of them are framing their sons in the island of Mirena’s bed.

But once the babies are with them, something in Melarue seems to unfurl, more and more. Like it had when Mirena first befriended them. They smile more and laugh more, and that awful hollowness doesn’t sink into their eyes nearly so often.

Mirena loves them, she knows. She loves them and she’s raising children with them, and her business is solid, and her parents are happy.

Life is good.

The boys are three years old when Melarue heads back to Orlais for a job, and returns with Serahlin.

She’s a little bundle of sorrow and uncertainty, all wrapped up in Melarue’s arms, with her family home burnt behind her and the ribbons her memae gave her clutched in a one small fist. Mirena falls in love almost as quickly as she suspects Melarue did, although it takes some time for Serahlin to come out of her shell. They do up the second bedroom for her with little debate, though, and when their girl finally starts talking more and reaching out, Mirena finds she cannot help but indulge her smiles with kisses and cuddles. Her parents are worse; when her mother realizes that Serahlin  _loves_  chocolate, both she and her father start keeping supplies of chocolate kisses on hand.

Sometimes Mirena finds herself just pausing and revelling at the reality of  _three_  babies, though. And there are days when she half expects Melarue to come home with more, too. It gets messy and hectic and when Melarue decides to get Thenvunin a pet bird, Mirena is half convinced they’ve lost their mind. Thenvunin getting a bird means Aelynthi and Serahlin both want pets, too, and not little ones either, and that’s how Mirena ends up driving the two of them to the pound and coming back with the world’s most intimidating cat, and a dog that is more fluff than dog.

Both seem like an inadvisable combination with a large, predatory bird, and MIrena worries for the day when they breach the House Pets versus Indoor Pets rule she establishes on the spot, and Thenvunin’s bird murders Anaris or Bon-Bon.

But it works out.

That’s the most astounding part.

It works, and they’re happy.

Mirena brings her children to the workshop, to help decide what their outfits are going to be for their first day of kindergarten. Thenvunin’s excited because kindergarten also means he’ll be big enough to start wearing his ‘invisible’ leg braces soon, which means it will be easier for him to wear pants, if he wants. Aelynthi is looking forward to class ever since Melarue told him there’d be art supplies and construction paper there. Serahlin is the nervous one; Mirena thinks that they might have started her on the Harry Potter books a little too soon, because she’s half convinced that going to school means having to face  _enormous_  amounts of danger.

But designing clothes is a fun distraction. Serahlin insists that she’ll need something she could potentially fight a three-headed dog in, but she wants it to be pink and to have a hat, too. Aelynthi has recently fallen in love with suede, and it’s all Mirena can do to convince him that his school suit doesn’t need to be made  _entirely_  out of it. And Thenvunin has decided he wants his pants to be covered in sequins and, if possible, electric turquoise zebra stripes.

There are some pitfalls to letting children design clothes.

Fortunately, though, children are also pretty easy to lead in new directions, Mirena has found. Except for Aelynthi, who digs in his heels until she gives up and decides to just make him his little suede suit. He’s going to be meeting with other kindergarteners, anyway, so they’ll probably think he’s the height of fashion. The children draw some ‘designs’ out and then all three of them head out to lunch.

When they get back, Melarue’s home, doing a video conference in the study. Mirena feels a rush of pride as all three children immediately lower their voices before tiptoeing out into the garden to play.

Opting for a break herself, she settles into the living room, where she can keep one eye on the garden and one on the television. She surfs channels until she finds some reruns of  _Grey’s Anatomy,_  and then settles in to watch doctors make bad life decisions. After dealing with so many thanks to all of Thenvunin’s challenges, it’s rather cathartic to think that their home lives could potentially be much more of a mess.

She’s halfway through and episode when Melarue finally emerges from their conference call, in the midst of the commercial break. They check on the children through the windows, first, before settling onto the couch beside her.

“Someone else trying to hire you for their catalogue?” she asks.

“No, just checking in our investments,” they say. “I wanted to do some of it face-to-face. It’s good to, from time to time.”

“Hmm,” Mirena replies. She’s not completely blind, thank you, she’s well aware that Melarue has a dodgy past and some even more questionable connections. Including friends who have come out of the woodwork with little to no explanation. But she’s also well aware that asking will probably just mean that Melarue has to lie, and by now she trusts them enough not to pry too deeply. They keep the secrets they want to. So far, it hasn’t cost her anything; and she’s very sure that Melarue would never let it cost the  _children_  anything, either.

“There was…” Melarue begins, but then trails off. Thought completely abandoned, as their gaze focuses on the television.

Mirena blinks, and then follows their line of vision. Half expecting to see a hurricane alert, or something along those lines.

But now. The television screen is drowned in muted colours, as a beautiful elven woman drapes herself over some fluttering golden silks strewn across a table. The name of a new perfume is whispered in the background, while the woman looks like she’s mostly indifferent to her near-nudity and her room full of shimmering fabrics.

“What is it?” Mirena wonders.

“Do you know that actress?” Melarue asks.

She glances back at the television, but the commercials have already changed.

“Who, the one in the perfume ad?” she checks. It merits a brisk nod of confirmation. “Never seen her before. Why? Is she a model?” A rival, perhaps? But Melarue has never cared about rivals before. And while she was certainly beautiful, Mirena can’t think of any particular need she’d fill for them. Maybe some of next year’s summer line, but they’ve got plenty of models for that already.

“She’s… I need to check some things,” Melarue declares. Then they shake their head, and offer her a smile. “Not to worry. It’s nothing bad. I’m just sure I’ve seen her before, and I want to know if I’ve guessed right.”

Oh, one of  _those_  things.

“Check IMDB?” she suggests. “Though I don’t think they list perfume commercials…”

“No, but I know who’s perfume that is, I can find out,” Melarue says, dismissive, now.

The show comes back on, then, and the subject slides away. The children come back inside not long after that, bringing Screecher along even though Screecher is an  _outside bird,_  but Thenvunin’s got his arms full of feathers and is all giggly with delight over his pet’s affection. So she doesn’t remind them  _too_  strenuously.

Children need a little indulgence, after all.

Mirena kisses their cheeks, instead, and sends them off to go get cleaned up.

 

~

 

 

Mamae makes clothes, Ashokara knows. Mamae makes  _beautiful_  clothes that celebrities wear, and her family because Mamae is nice. Whenever she watches those big fancy award shoes with Thenvunin and Aelynthi and Serahlin, there’s always a few people there who say “Mirena” when they’re asked who they’re wearing. 

Ash doesn’t get it at first. How can you wear a person? But Thenvunin explains to her that Mamae  _designed_  those clothes, they’re  _hers_ , so when someone says they’re wearing Mirena, they’re saying they’re wearing clothes made by her.

Which is really, really cool, Ash thinks. Clothes are so pretty! They make pretty people like her brothers and sister even prettier. And there are so many fun things about clothes - from how they feel to how they move. And sparkles! Some  _sparkle_  and that is the  _best_. 

Ash wants to know what it looks like, to design and make clothes. So one day after school she sneaks over to Mamae’s workshop. She slips inside to find Mamae at a table, drawing. And there are so many fabrics! Some shimmer and others glitter which is a BIG difference.

“Mamae! Hi!” Ash greets, carefully walking over to her. Mamae looks up and smiles.

“Da’len! Hello,” she says, hugging and kissing Ash. 

“Is everything okay?”

“Uh huh, I wanted to know what your work looks like.”

“Oh!” Mamae smiles and begins to show her around the workshop. Ash learns what a sewing machine is and what stitching means and all sorts of new things. Mamae even lets Ash pick out some new fabric for a dress. It’s gonna be a really pretty dress too!

Ash finds that she really likes the workshop. So she starts going there after school more. Mama is usually still working by that time and so is Nanae, so Ash hangs out with Mamae, who has her do her homework first but then the fun stuff can happen! Mamae teaches Ash how to sew, and then how to draw, and how to pick the best fabrics for things. 

Ash  _loves_  it. She loves working with her hands and making pretty things. The first couple of things she makes aren’t that good, but Mamae says that it’s okay, the first ones aren’t always good, the important part is to keep trying. So Ash tries again. And again. And again until she has figured out how to make a hat! She makes a purple, shimmery beanie for Thenvunin because he likes shiny purple things, and a teal one for Aelynthi, and a pink one for Serahlin. When she’s done, Mamae shows her a hat that made specifically for Ash! It’s blue and has horn holes! 

Her siblings like their new hats and it makes Ash happy. It makes Ash  _really_  happy! She asks Mamae to teach her everything. Mamae smiles and nods and says it will take a while, but that’s okay, Ash has lots of time, she’s still little. 

When she makes her first dress, it’s all wonky and lopsided but she smiles, “I’m going to be the next big thing!” She declares and she means it. Ashokara is going to be the next  _Mirena_. And when people are asked at those big fancy award shows what they’re wearing, they’ll say “Ashokara”. 

 

~

 

Serahlin is quiet as Mirena examines the bruises on her knuckles, and the split skin next to her thumb. 

The school had called twenty minutes ago, explaining that Serahlin had been in an ‘altercation’ and had broken some of the rules on fighting. Mirena’s between projects at the moment, so she’d been at home to take the call, and available to drive out and come and get her.

“Our school has a zero tolerance policy on violence,” the principal explains. The school nurse, at least, had given Serahlin an ice pack. He had given the other girl one, too, to help with the swelling around her eye.

With a sigh, Mirena straightens up, and inclines her head towards the principal in acknowledgement.

She keeps her eyes on Serahlin, though.

“What happened?” she asks, because the only information she’s gotten so far is that there was ‘a fight’. But her girl is not one to throw punches willy-nilly. She has a temper, but it is usually more… indirect, than that. And when she’d left for school this morning, she’d been excited about her new phone. All the kids had gotten one over the Feast Break. They looked more like ‘grown-up’ phones, and according to Melarue they had much better emergency functions, too.

Serahlin doesn’t look down at her shoes, as she tends to when she’s done something she feels bad about. Instead she looks Mirena in the eye.

“She was making fun of Thenvunin’s lisp,” Serahlin explains. “And how he walks. And I  _told_ her to stop, and she wouldn’t, so I had to make her. It was upsetting him. The teacher wasn’t available for consultation, she prefers to spend recess in the break room with Mr. Dubois.”

Sometimes, Mirena thinks, it’s unavoidably clear where Serahlin has started taking after Melarue.

Nodding at her daughter, Mirena then turns to the principal, and raises an eyebrow at him.

He clears his throat.

“Punching other children is against school rules,” he says. “But we also have a zero tolerance policy on bullying. Under normal circumstances, Serahlin would be looking at a suspension, but given the situation I think that a week’s worth of detention will suffice…”

“Hmm,” Mirena replies.

Objectively she knows that, as a parent, one of her duties is to be fair and to make certain that the children learn discipline and are not rewarded for doing things like following violent impulses. But she has never been particularly  _good_  at that aspect of parenting, and she can tell that today is not going to be the day that she suddenly learns how to be, either.

“I think we will have to get back to you on that topic. And that the children will be coming home with me. But do not worry, Serahlin and I will have a long conversation on what she did wrong,” she decides. The principal starts to object somewhat to having the boys pulled from their classes as well, but Mirena needs to check on them, too, now. She puts her foot down, and ultimately there isn’t much the man can do except make his objections known as she gently herds Serahlin out of the office.

Mirena waits until they are in the hallway before she leans down, and drops a kiss onto her daughter’s head.

“Next time you punch someone, darling, don’t hold your thumb in your fist. It makes it more likely that you will break it. You make a fist like  _this,”_  she explains, and Serahlin watches carefully as she demonstrates with her own hand. “And it is much better to hit people in the gut than in the face. Especially when they are so thick-skulled; their face is  _much_  too hard of a surface.”

Serahlin lets out a relieved sigh, at that.

“You aren’t mad?” her little girl asks.

“Well, I don’t want you to make a habit of this kind of thing,” she says. “But I consider your reasoning sufficient, today. So, no, I’m not mad at you, darling. I think the sore knuckles are penance enough.”

Serahlin flexes the knuckles in question, and winces a little. And then she looks up at Mirena with her big eyes, and her solemn little mouth.

“Can we go for ice-cream, then? For Thenvunin,” she hastens to clarify, as Mirena purses her lips and does her best not to look  _too_  amused. “I think it would cheer him up.”

“It probably would, but, I think we’ll just go home for now,” she declares. Serahlin gives up with grace, at least, and before they make their way down the hall, she accepts another kiss to the head from Mirena. And then she stands up on her tip-toes, and presses one to Mirena’s cheek in return.

“I’m glad you’re not angry,” her girl says, as Mirena rests a hand on her shoulders.

Mirena is, in fact, quite angry, but as it would be inappropriate for  _her_  to deck a child, and given that her daughter has already seen admirably to the matter herself, it’s easy to just subsume the feeling into pride instead.

And also to make certain that the next time Serahlin needs to throw a punch, it only hurts the  _other_  person.

  
~

 

Uthvir is eleven when they meet Andruil.

It’s the first day of the new school year, and it’s a new school for them, too, and they’re a little nervous. The school itself is new, even; built just last year, thanks to an overhaul in the district. Selene and Felasel had been worried about it, even though everyone else seemed really happy to have another school, and less crowded classrooms. They’d even talked about moving, although when Uthvir tried to ask why, they didn’t get much of an explanation.

Spider-Man hadn’t offered any further insights, though he had told Uthvir not to make any new friends or talk to many people in their class. But that was just how Spider-Man was, he was always blowing stuff out of proportion.

Still, the overwhelming combination of factors had left Uthvir feeling pretty uncertain. Felasel drops them off and almost walks into the school with them, and Uthvir had to remind him that they’re too old for that kind of thing, now, and all but chase him off. When they get to class their new teacher seems nice. He’s a human with a long, slow drawl, and since it’s the first day, he lets everyone ‘get to know each other’, and puts a movie on towards the end of class.

Uthvir meets Andruil mostly because her desk is right next to theirs. She’s got dark hair and yellow eyes, and a denim jacket, and she chews gum until the teacher makes her put it away. When they’re supposed to be making introductions, she glances at Uthvir, and then taps her nails on the side of her desk.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

Uthvir tells her, and they exchange introductions. Andruil’s a little weird. But Uthvir usually likes people who are a little weird, and they’re not really anybody to point fingers. She tells them that she’s been going to private school for the past while, that she had to fight to get to go to public school, because her parents are strict and rich. She has an older brother and a younger sister, she says, and she doesn’t get along with either of them.

“Sylaise is a crybaby, and Falon’Din’s a dickhead,” she tells them.

Uthvir blinks at the swear.

“Do they let you curse in private school?” they wonder.

Andruil shrugs.

“No, but they might let me in public school,” she says, cocky and brazen.

“They won’t,” Uthvir assures her. “It’s against the rules.”

“Rules were made to be broken,” Andruil insists. And then she sticks her head up, and straightens her shoulders, and waves at the teacher.

“Hey, shitwad!” she calls out.

The entire class  _gasps,_ and for a moment it seems like no one is quite sure of what to do. Andruil grins, the cat with the canary, before the teacher recovers and then tells her to go to the principal’s office. He writes her a note, which Andruil takes with a flourish, before skipping off like she just won a trophy instead of a reprimand.

Uthvir marvels.

The last time  _they_  got sent to the principal’s office, it had been because they’d forgotten that they had one of their practice knives in their backpack, and it had been awful. They’d gotten a warning for bringing a weapon to school, and Selene and Felasel had both come, and there’s been arguments and explanations and Uthvir had felt like the worst kid in the world. They’d felt so bad about it that Selene just told them it was a mistake, in the end, and hadn’t even grounded them or anything.

Andruil’s kind of cool, they think.

When she comes back from the principal’s office, she takes the seat beside them again, and doesn’t even seem the least bit contrite.

At lunch break, they end up exploring the playground together. A few other kids from their class join in, and it seems like they might be set to form a new group of friends, based mostly around awe at Andruil’s complete disregard for authority. When the bell rings, Andruil invites Uthvir over to her house.

“My papae’s picking me up,” she says. “He has a new truck. You should come over, we can watch television in our home theatre.”

“I need permission,” Uthvir admits.

Andruil tsk’s, derisive, and they hesitate. The new school is within walking distance of their house, just on the other side of it, really. Felasel had tried to argue that he should still come and pick Uthvir up, but they’d eventually won the point that it really wasn’t  _that_  far. If they go through Ana’s backyard they can get there even quicker.

“Why don’t you come over to my house instead?” they suggest. “It’s just right down there. We could walk ourselves.”

Andruil contemplates the option. Something in it must appeal to her, though, because she agrees to the change of plans pretty easily, even though Uthvir can’t offer things like new trucks or home theatres. She doesn’t even wait to tell her dad; just shrugs her bag a little more firmly onto her shoulder, and gestures at them to lead the way.

In the end they  _do_  cross through Ana’s backyard, although mostly because Uthvir thinks it seems roguish and rebellious. Especially when they don’t tell Andruil that they know the owners. They hop over the fence, and then head down to the sidewalk, and make it easily to Uthvir’s house. Felasel’s car is gone, but it looks like Selene is home. The front door’s unlocked and Uthvir can hear Spider-Man whispering in that way that they think of as ‘waking up’.

They’re not a little tiny kid anymore, of course. They know that Spider-Man’s a spirit. But in the grand scheme of things, he’s still  _theirs,_  so they don’t worry about it too much. So long as no one else finds out, it’s probably not a big deal.

“I thought it’d be more of a dive,” Andruil says, looking at their house with vague disappointment.

Uthvir opens their mouth to reply, with the front door half open and their hand still on the knob. But then it swings out of their grip, and they blink up and there’s Selene, all of a sudden. Standing there, staring at Andruil with the angriest expression Uthvir’s ever seen.

Their blood runs cold.

“ _No,”_  Selene says.

Andruil blinks up at her.

“Chill, lady,” she replies, though there’s a note of uncertainty to her tone that hasn’t been there all day.

For a minute, Uthvir thinks Selene might actually take a swing at her, or something. Which is crazy. Selene’s one of the nicest people they know, and she’d never hit a  _kid._  Especially not one who hasn’t even done anything. The hairs on the back of their neck stand up, too, and they feel Spider-Man hissing under their skin, all of a sudden. Like an angry animal.

“You need to leave. Go home, right now,” Selene tells Andruil, before bodily  _grabbing_  Uthvir and dragging them all the way inside. “We’ve had a family emergency. Playdate cancelled, so sorry, have a nice day.”

The shuts with a resounding  _bang,_  and Uthvir blinks, as their heart speeds up.

They did something wrong.

What did they do wrong?

They’re allowed to walk home. They’re allowed to bring friends over.  _They_  didn’t get sent to the principal’s office – would Selene know that Andruil had been?

They swallow, hard, as they find themselves subjected to one of the most intense once-overs they’ve ever gotten in their life. The fact that Spider-Man is basically hissing incoherently in the background of their mind doesn’t really help the situation much. Uthvir feels like everything has just gone from zero to eleven, and the scariest part is no matter how hard they try, they can’t see where it went wrong.

And then Selene pulls them into a hug.

“I’m sorry,” they manage, as she wraps her arms around them and tucks them under her chin.

“No,” she says, again. But the tone is more normal this time. “No, don’t be. I’m sorry, I should have done that… differently.”

 _Andruil is dangerous,_  Spider-Man tells them, then, having finally regained his coherence.  _Stay away from her!_

…Andruil?

But… she’s just a kid? In their class?

_Dangerous!!!_

The tone which Spider-Man is using is usually reserved for things like ‘you are about to put your hand right on that very hot stove’, not his typical ‘if eight different implausible things lined up precisely right under these circumstances  _you could hypothetically die’_  type stuff. Uthvir doesn’t know what to make of that.

“What’s wrong?” they try asking Selene, instead.

Selene looks like she’s trying to think of a good way to answer.

“Is there really an emergency?” they try. Maybe something  _did_  happen, maybe that’s why everyone’s being weird. Where’s Felasel? They feel a sudden pang of worry. Did Felasel get hurt? Before they can ask, though, Selene shakes her head. And then she lets out a breath, and hugs them again. Uthvir tries not to squirm as it goes on for a little longer than usual, before she finally lets them go.

“We need to talk, but not here,” she finally decides.

Uthvir nods, uncertain.

And they remain uncertain, as Selene takes them upstairs, and they start packing some  bags for a ‘road trip’. They feel a pang of insecurity, wondering if they’re being sent away again. But Selene packs bags for herself, too, and she doesn’t say anything like that. Doesn’t scold them or yell at them, or tell them she’s finally had it. They don’t pack anything for Felasel, but Selene says he has to stay because he has work, and because ‘somebody needs to keep an eye on things’.

Somehow Uthvir doesn’t think she’s worried about the plants getting watered.

By the time they’re loading up the car, while Selene texts people and locks up the house, their mind is beyond racing. They’ve got Spider-Man stuffed under one arm and they don’t even  _care_  that it’ll look silly if anyone sees them in the driveway. Andruil is gone and there’s nobody around, not really, and all they can get from their partner again is a nebulous and overwhelming sense of  _dread,_  and the notion that it would be better if they were heading someplace else. Far away.

 _Andruil means Falon’Din,_  is the only semi-coherent thing they can glean, before Selene finally gets into the driver’s side and they pull out of the driveway.

“Where are we going?” they finally manage to ask.

Selene lets out a breath.

“To Eda’s place,” she tells them.

Uthvir perks up a little bit, at that. Eda’s place! That’s out in the wilderness. They haven’t been there since last summer, because one of the dragons had a new nest and she doesn’t know Uthvir too well and gets nervous around strangers, and by the time the hatching started, it was only a few days until school began. But  _now_  they’re going? Just  _after_  the first day?

“Is Eda okay?” they check. They like Eda. Spider-Man says she’s his daughter, even, so she’s extra important, and unlike with most people, there actually seems to be a reason for it.

“Eda’s okay,” Selene confirms. “Everyone’s… most everyone is okay.”

Her hands tighten on the steering wheel for a minute.

Uthvir goes quiet, nervous and uncertain, but a little more optimistic now. Eda’s house is the coolest place, possibly  _ever,_  even though it’s too far away for the internet to work. They’re glad they remembered to bring their games with them. Eda likes to play, and it can get a little boring at night, if they end up staying over.

They glance out the window, and watch the road drift by; and wonder what’s so dangerous about Andruil, that they’re basically fleeing town.

 

~

 

It’s Uthvirs first day at a new school.

Which makes it perfectly normal for her to be nervous, Selene reminds herself.

Even if they weren’t going to a school within range of  _them_.

 

Really, they should have moved years ago. Should have moved as soon as they realized who was around and….and who wasn’t.

The glass in her hand shrieks as it cracks down the middle. With a heavy sigh, Selene tosses the remnants into the recycling bin, and pulls a towel down from the top of the pantry.

 

That’s when she feels her.

It has been centuries, but the rush of adrenaline is fresh. Flashes of fire, of men lining the walls with guns pointed at her, of finding Dirthamen in the basement.

Recollections of Uthvirs too-telling avoidance of her.

Des strives to rise to the top, to elongate their nails, to save Uthvir, save their child, _she has their child and Dirthamen is already dead._

Selene swings the door open, and looks down at a familiar head of hair and bright yellow eyes and holds back the reflex to set her on fire where she stands.

She is just a child.

She has not hurt them yet. This version of her has not earned their ire.

She will not give them the opportunity to.

 

“ _No_ ,” she grits out, most of her focus on not shifting her form, and on keeping Fear from crawling their way into her mind.

 

“Chill lady,” the young murderous heir responds, and Selene can feel the flames licking beneath her skin, body temperature rising. She is too close to them, they are too close to her. Andruil will not hurt Uthvir again, she will not hurt another member of Selenes family, and the longer she is here, the more likely it is Des and Fear will convince Selene to end her before she has the chance.

 

“You need to leave. Go home, right now,” Selene warns, reaching out to tear Uthvir from her. Grounding herself. They will not hurt Uthvir, they will not sharpen their nails while they are holding them, will not light where they could burn.

But it is a near thing.

“We’ve had a family emergency. Playdate cancelled, so sorry, have a nice day,” Selene lies, before slamming the door. Selene yanks Uthvir inside more roughly than she means to in her rush to get them safe. She scrutinizes them. They look unharmed, no bruising or hickies or claw marks or tears in their clothing. She prods a bit at their aura, looking for any signs of distress, but all she finds is Fear and Worry. At  _her_.

 

She deflates as Des retreats, pulling Uthvir into a tight embrace.

“I’m sorry,” they murmur, while she holds them tighter and feels her chest tighten in guilt.

“No,” she insists “No, don’t be. I’m sorry. I should have done that…differently.”

Should have known better. Should never have let you gone to that school. Should have been more cautious.

 _You have been living with Fear for too long,_  Des grumbles without arguing her points.

 

“What’s wrong?” They ask, pulling away from her slightly.

 

Selenes face scrunches, as she debates the merits of telling them the truth. They are still so  _young_. Too young to know about these things. But she doesn’t want to lie to them, either. She mentally lists the merits of honesty versus Parental lying when they speak again and ask “Is there really an emergency?”

 

Selene shakes her head. No need to worry them about things that are  _actually_  fine.

Maybe she should explain, after all. They’ll notice in the next few years that she and Felasel aren’t aging like Adannars mother is, and gods forbid they try looking into things  _without_  a guide.

She is going to lose them, though. When they learn what she and Felasel are, what Fear intends for them.

What she’s been trying to avoid.

Selene lets out a breath, and pulls them in for another hug. Her sweet, sharp child.

She is going to miss them, when they leave her.

 

The least she do is can give them their best shot at making an informed decision.

 

“We need to talk, but not here,” she decides.

 

Eda’s will be safer. Far away, secluded. Untouchable by the Evanuris family.

 

Uthvir seems excited, at least, when they find out where they are headed. The car is full of their luggage, and Selene has sent Felasel a coded warning informing him what happened and where they are going to be.

 

Half of her hopes he comes anyway, responsibilities be damned. If only so that she doesn’t have nightmares of leaving her son to Andruils wrath again. But Felasel is not a child anymore, and Andruil is. Felasel can defend himself, now. And he will. Pride… _Vengeance_ , now, even if they don’t talk about it, will keep them safe.

 

“Is Eda ok?” Uthvir pipes up.

 

Selene nods as she merges onto the highway “Eda’s ok. Everyone’s…” She swallows, remembering the results of her search so many years ago “Most everyone’s ok,” she insists.

 

And she’s going to keep it that way, she resolves. Selene turns the volume up on the radio as they drive towards the horizon, trying to drown out Fear and Des and focus on maintaining a safe speed.

She will keep them safe.

 


	26. Cinder and Smoke

Felasel tells her early on, about Pride. He tells her about Pride, and about the first time they met, in college, hundreds of years ago.

This is the third cycle.

This will be the third time he’ll watch her grow old and die, while he remains the same. Dying is easy, she thinks. She gets to go on, ignorant of the pain and loss, reborn into the world with no knowledge of the hardships of the life before.

But Felasel lives with it. He carries those memories with him like stones, heavy with the weight, building up over the years and soon he’ll be crushed beneath them, with no one there to lighten the load.

He must have been  _so lonely_.

That’s all she thinks about, for the first year, as he holds her, and she listens to the sound of his even breaths in the darkness. He must have been so lonely, and when she dies this time around, he’ll be lonely again. So so lonely, until she comes back—but what if she doesn’t? What if she’s nowhere near him? What if she doesn’t find him again?

Dirthamen understands.

Dirthamen, who is Felasel’s father but also isn’t.

They discuss it sometimes. Sometimes he’ll come by the museum, when she’s working late, and they’ll sit in her office, and she signs to him, and he nods.

**They’ll be so lonely, when we die.**

Dirthamen holds his teacup, and the silence seems to stretch. “Yes,” He says finally, voice fading to a strained whisper.

 **I don’t want them to be lonely** , she finishes, fingers trembling, just a little.

He meets her gaze, “I do not want it either.”

—

It gets easier, over the next two years, to not look at Felasel and wonder how her death will break him this time. They move out of the city after they get married, to a house Felasel owns in the countryside, surrounded by old vineyards and trees.

Safer, he says. From those who might wish to hurt them.

She doesn’t understand why anyone would want to hurt Felasel and Selene. They’re the kindest people she knows. But then again, she doesn’t understand why anyone would want to put cleaning detergent in a child’s fruit punch, but that is something she remembers very well.

Cruel people do cruel things to good people more often than not.

She doesn’t mind the hour drive into the city for work every morning, not if it helps Felasel sleep a little easier at night.

“Serah Elvhen?”

Cirimeni smiles at the assistant curator and holds up a notecard:  **Doing some late night research for a new exhibit. You can go home if you’d like.**

The assistant curator nods with a smile, “Have a good evening, Serah. Don’t forget that Kelos locks everything up tight after ten, so if you have to go outside you’ll need him to unlock everything to come back inside.”

Cirimeni nods again, and waves. She watches him walk down the hall and disappear, before she heads toward the stairwell to the old Tevinter Imperium record room.

She’s got an hour or two, before Felasel comes to pick her up to head home for the evening. It isn’t much time, but it’s something.

There have been cases of spirits and demons possessing non-mages, Cirimeni is certain she’s come across it before in some of the older readings.

Now…now she just needs to find it in the records.

—

Selene and Dirthamen are coming over for dinner.

Cirimeni’s the only one working late this evening, and since she’s in town she offers to grab a few last minute items while the others begin cooking.

The supermarket is packed, as Cirimeni maneuvers past shopping carts and busy mothers calling for their children to keep up. She takes a step back into a less crowded aisle to avoid being run over by a particularly gruff looking woman.

She moves the hand she’d placed unconsciously over her stomach, before she tightens her grip on her grocery basket and continues down the aisle.

They don’t need much, just some eggs, and some particularly sharp cheddar cheese that Cirimeni’s become quite fond of lately, and a few ingredients for tomorrow night’s dinner as well. She pauses in the wine aisle and pulls out her phone with a smile.

**Do you have any requests for wine?**

She doesn’t get a text back right away, which is rather odd.

When two minutes go by and Felasel still hasn’t replied she grabs an old favorite of his and heads toward the checkout line. Likely he’s busy helping his mother in the kitchen, but somehow it just doesn’t…sit well. Something tightens in her chest, a feeling she can’t quite shake.

The checkout line seems to take forever, and the drive home even longer. She finds herself glancing over at her phone, even when she knows she should keep her eyes on the road, just to see if he’s replied.

Nothing.

Not one response, in the hour long drive through the darkening countryside. The classical music filtering through the radio seems too loud, violin strings echoing in a haunting melody that suddenly sounds too sharp and shrill on her ears.

An orange glow flits over the trees, and Cirimeni’s heart seems to stop, and she steps harder on the gas, tires shrieking on asphalt, until her car pulls out of the trees and the house looms in front of her.

The house is burning.

She barely remembers to turn off the car before she stumbles out and up the driveway, coughing as smoke filled air assaults her lungs. The garage is nothing but a pile of charred brick, and scorch marks score the front door.

She can’t hear anything from inside over the roar of flames and the crackling of burning timber. That is, until an unholy shriek pierces the night air. At first she thinks it’s the whistling of the wood, until it hits her.

The rabbit hutch, attached to the back of the house.

She needs to get inside, needs to find Felasel and Selene and Dirthamen and…and…she can’t breathe. Her throat locks up, as she lets out a strangled cough that ends in a strained wheeze, and her chest tightens and her vision goes blurry, just for a moment.

They’re dead. They’re all dead. Where are they? She needs to get inside. The rabbits,  _the rabbits_ , the screams are  _so loud_ what if that’s really Felasel? What if he’s screaming and she can’t get to him!?

She digs into her purse for her inhaler, as tears stream down her face, a product of fear and smoke alike, and manages to suck in one strangled, choppy breath. The next is easier, as the medicine begins to kick in. 

The rabbits have gone quiet, by the time she can breathe enough to move.

She tears the hem of her dress, and ties the strip of fabric around her mouth and nose, and pushes her way inside. The stairs leading up from the foyer have collapsed completely, and the smoke is too thick to see much. So she crouches down, coughing again, throat tightening dangerously, and scans the floor.

There’s a figure near the door leading to the kitchen, lying atop the two half of their coffee table.

Dirthamen!

It’s the adrenaline, she knows, that allows her to drag him out onto the front lawn, but even then she’s gasping for breath, and has to reach for her inhaler again. Dirthamen lets out a small groan, and she pulls him into a sitting position as he opens his eyes.

He stiffens for a moment, and then sits up more fully, and looks back at the house and then to her.

Cirimeni lifts trembling hands and signs, angry that she can’t scream, can’t voice the desperation she’s feeling, as she keeps herself from grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking as hard as she can to demand an answer.

**Where is Felasel?!?**

 

**~**

 

Selene wakes up  _angry_.

Her arms are bound behind her, enchanted cuffs tying her to a chair and keeping Des quiet.

Felasel is beside her, awake, and silent, and worried. But alive.

Why are they  _alive_?

 

It’s definitely a Templar holding, if the banner on the wall is any indication.

A sword on fire.

If it’s flames they want, Selene will be more than happy to oblige.

 

The sound of heavy footsteps in armor gets louder, and the door swings open. The sudden rush of light pouring into the room is blinding, and Selene has to blink away the spots while the room fills with approximately five large humans.

 

“So you’re awake,” the one in the center says in a gruff voice. “Good to see smiting still knocks demons on their ass after all these years.”

“Why haven’t you killed us?” Felasel asks. Pride, really, if the echo is anything to go by.

 

“We will, don’t worry,” another one grins. “But there’s a bigger operation at hand.”

Selenes eyes narrow, grip tightening as she realizes what they want. They want  _all of them_.

 

“You will let us go,” she says instead.

A raucous laughter erupts from the group.

“No. That’s not what we do.”

 

“Oh?” She taunts, anger and smoke rising as she remembers the raid “What you ‘do’ then, is attack people just trying to live their lives? Attack innocents, attack people who have never killed or harmed, or done anything and leave them to die in a burning house?”

“ _You_  started that fire-”

“ **You**  struck an innocent man down in his childs home!” She snaps, eyes turning black and smoldering again “Have you ever lost a family member, Knight-Commander? A loved one? Do you feel things, in that empty chest of yours, beneath your symbols and your prayers and your armor? Or has it all been replaced with lyrium, and lies, and a greed for power over those you deem lesser than you? Do you so Desire to reach that level of ascension of your precious Andraste, in whose name you carry out these terrors? A woman who burned for her beliefs? I would be glad to indulge you in these desires. You need only  _Step. **Closer**_.”

 

The Knight-Commander takes a step forward, Selenes lips curling into a grin as her chains weaken with each step, Des getting louder, blood and magic pulsing through her veins. 

They hurt Dirthamen.

They may have killed him.

He could be dead in a smoldering house. Just like then. Just like  _her_.

They tried to kill her son. He is bound and silent and working through his own chains while she pulls their attention, readying his own strike for the opportune moment.

But the Knight-Commander sent the smite at Dirthamen during the raid. Blasted him clear into the coffee table, left his body there as though it were nothing.

As though  _he_  were nothing.

 

She will keep this one, she thinks. She will feed on him until the next cycle begins, until Dirthamen is back and safe and alive and only then will she give him the mercy of death. She will rob him of whatever life he may have had, as he has taken Dirthamens from him. She will entice him with images of his deepest desires, of kindness and love and power. Dangle them before him like a horse and carrot before  _tearing them away,_ night after night with only the barest shred of life keeping him tethered to his body.

Let him be empty. Let him suffer, let him feel pain as she does,  _as they do, he deserves it_ ,  _ **he deserves it**_.

 

Felasels cuffs clatter to the floor, as Pride rears up, two eyes become nine and his skin turns to stone, claws scraping against metal while the Templars scream and draw their swords. Too late. Too late, as two fall to the ground, heads falling to the floor separate from the clank of their bodies. The Knight-Commander still entranced, Selenes tendrils of purple smoke slowly encasing him as he steps ever closer, removing her cuffs himself as Felasel smashes another two against the wall, over and over and over, Selene echoing the sound in the Knight-Commanders head.

Drums at a festival he enjoyed as a child, disguising the sound of his teams bodies smashing and cracking and breaking to pieces beneath Felasels rage.

 

They are going to make it out, Selene decides, fingers lacing around the hips of the man before her, removing the ring of keys and tossing them to Felasel. He catches them, aura still out and dark and angry as he eyes the Knight-Commander himself. The man who killed his father. Selene is about to tell him she has her own plans for him, when the door bursts open again.

Another swarm of templars pours into the room, smites going off over and over and over again, pillars of light erupting around them and Selene fights, and fights and struggles to keep her hold, to keep an eye on Felasel, but it is too much. Too much to take, too loud and too sudden until a deafening silence falls over her.

An armored boot is the last thing she sees before it all goes black again.

 

~

 

It does not take long to get the full story from Dirthamen, as he shakes off the aftereffects of the smite. A Templar raid on the house, and instead of killing Felasel and Selene, they had been taken somewhere.

The local Templar faction in Minrathous had been quite vocal lately, striking out against the Magisters and orchestrating raids of local gathering spots. But so far there had been no arrests or violent attacks.

Not until now.

Cirimeni vaguely recalls the large compound outside of the city, barbed wire fences and cement and slate colored stone. A ‘precaution’ the Chantry had claimed, with the rumors of an influx of suspicious mages and the recent crackdowns on blood magic.

It  _has_  to be there. That is the best place to begin their search but…but they cannot waste time hunting down false leads. She does not know what the Templars are planning for Selene and Felasel, but she knows they will not be kept alive much longer.

What if they try and fight back, and are slain regardless?

She takes a few slow, centering breaths. She needs to  _think_.

They are not strong enough, on their own, to stage a rescue mission, even if they can discern where the two have been taken.

But where could they possibly go for help? Felasel and Selene had hinted at others, but had never elaborated on who they were or where they might live. When she asks Dirthamen, he shakes his head as well.

“I do not know where they would be.”

It’s up to them then. Cirimeni swallows, and opens the trunk of her car and pulls out a storage box, before she turns back to Dirthamen.

**We have to do it now.**

Dirthamen looks toward the flames, “We will need to find a secure place.”

 **The old wine cellar** , Cirimeni answers, heading toward the treeline. When Felasel had bought the property it had been the manor house attached to a nearby vineyard. Felasel hadn’t kept up with the business, and the fields had quickly returned to nature, but there was still an empty wine cellar back behind the greenhouse.

The heat from the fire reaches into the trees, even with the wide berth they give the house. Cirimeni tries not to focus on the flickers of orange and red reflected on the greenhouse walls, as she hands Dirthamen the box to hold and pulls out her keys, and undoes the padlock.

The doors are heavy, metal-lined wood, and it takes both of them to pull one open, and Dirthamen summons a light until Cirimeni can find the switch on the wall, halfway down the stone steps, and Dirthamen pulls the door shut behind them with a thunderous bang.

This was not how she and Dirthamen had planned this. They had wanted more time, more planning, to make certain they’d covered all the possible outcomes, and circumvented the dangers that came with such things.

And to learn the techniques needed for a non-mage to even manage it.

But they cannot worry about what  _could_  have been; they no longer have the luxury of time.

The air is cool, and a little musty, as the hallway opens to the large antechamber; arched stone walls looming above them in the half-light, and the smell of wine like a fading memory, centuries old.

They’d never used the place for wine. Felasel had claimed that he’d used it for storage, and she sees a handful of chests in a corner of the room that she suspects are his. She motions for Dirthamen to set her own box down, and opens it, pulling out a notebook and several small jars.

“Perhaps I should do this alone, until we can be certain of our success.” Dirthamen speaks into the silence, as Cirimeni struggles to undo the lid off of one of the jars.

 **It will work** , she signs, jaw set.  **It has worked before.**

Dirthamen nods in acceptance, not willing to argue further when he understands their need for haste, and begins looking over the runes scrawled across the page.

It  _has_  to work. If it doesn’t she’ll die, and so will Selene and Felasel and she can’t…she can’t let that happen.

Felasel needs her.

She can’t enter the Fade on her own, and a non-mage’s connection is too weak for her to call upon spirits or demons without aid, but she has not been idle these past two years. She hands one of the jars to Dirthamen, and takes a different one for herself, the one with the red lid.

Dirthamen finishes drawing the runs in the corners of the room, to stabilize the connection with the Fade, and to keep out lesser spirits from entering the space.

Her hands are shaking, as she looks down at the potion in front of her. It smells noxious, though she had not expected anything different. She looks to Dirthamen, and he gives a nod, and reaches for his own. 

His only has a bit of lyrium in it, to strengthen his connection to the Fade, but her own is full of far more, and she can only hope that all mixed together, the ingredients truly do cancel out the fatal effects of one another like the records had stated, or she’ll be dead before the ritual even begins.

The liquid is cool, but as it pours down the back of her throat, it begins to burn, and she nearly chokes. But she drinks it all, ignoring the panic rising in her, as old memories of poisoned drinks rise in her mind, shadows of fear making her hands tighten and her breath come out in shorter, quick pants; but she swallows it all, and closes her eyes, as a wave of lightheadedness hits her.

Her vision blurs, and she has to blink the odd sensation away. All she can smell are the herbs from the potion, and smoke from the burning house above them.

“How do you feel?” Dirthamen asks, and she instinctively puts her hands to her ears, as his voice roars in her head, like he’s placed a megaphone next to her ear and shouted. He says something else, but she curls up on the ground, trying to shield herself from the sound as much as she can. She can feel something wet and warm trickling down her neck and through her fingers.

It’s failed. She’s going to die here, in this dark, damp cellar, and Felasel will die wherever they’ve taken him, and he’s probably so afraid, and worried, and he’s alone,  _she can’t leave him alone_!

The ringing in her ears stops, and she blinks away the pinpricks of lights that flicker in her vision, as she takes in a long, slow breath and sits up.

The room is cold.

Her breath comes out as a puff of steam, and she looks over to see Dirthamen crouched beside her, one arm outstretched, as if he’d meant to touch her arm before she’d moved. “Are you well?” He asks again, and his voice echoes, but the sound is bearable.

She offers a faint nod.

The rooms seems…darker, now. The overhead lights cast a blue haze, and she can hear the scuttling of something in the shadows along the edges. She wonders if Dirthamen is seeing the same thing, or if whatever she drank had done something odd, and she’s begun to hallucinate.

“I will attempt to call a spirit to us,” Dirthamen explains, as he slowly stands, reaching out a hand. Cirimeni takes it with a nod, and lets him pull her to her feet.

Something pulls at the wards, fraying edges, testing the boundaries it finds. Old. She can somehow  _feel_  how old it is, even if she cannot see it. Old, and knowing, and wanting.

It is not alone.

It comes entwined with something else, something connected to it, separate and distinct but also… _not_ , somehow. Two spirits, calling to them, seeking entry rather than forcing their way through, though one of the spirits seems intent on doing so the longer they pause in their decision to lower the wards.

Dirthamen does so.

Longing comes first.

Cirimeni hears it echo in her head, shadows converging in from the corners, lengthening and turning the room black as pitch. But it is not a frightening dark. It’s an endless expanse, no end in sight, only the need to find something  _anything_ other than darkness, and the knowledge that it likely never will, but needs to wonder at the possibility that it could.

It is old, and powerful, but it is not…it is not something that calls to her.

She does not call to it either, it seems, as the spirit turns toward Dirthamen, six burning orbs the only semblance of anything other than twisting shadows. Flickers of the overhead light catch on feather-like protrusions, not quite solid, whispering against the dirt floor, heavy with the weight of its nature.

Longing turns to Dirthamen like an old friend, and Cirimeni looks away, heart beating fast, as she feels the edges of the wards weaken further, as Longing’s twin forces its way through, heedless of the obstacles it faces.

Purpose is blinding.

Bright and gold and almost too hot to touch. A path through Longing’s darkness, never forking in its decisions and looking back, always forward, centered on its goal, whether lofty or mundane, but utterly focused on obtaining it.

**_We will save them. We will save HIM._ **

Yes. Yes they will.

Felasel is her purpose, he always has been. Even when she did not know him, she always found him, like a compass needle pointing its way north.

 ** _We are wasting time_** , Purpose scolds, its extra limbs pulling at her, urging her to follow.  ** _You promised him. I will help you keep that promise, if you say yes._**

A promise?

A memory rises to the surface, of the first night they’d slept in the same bed, and she’d awoken to Felasel thrashing with a night terror. Holding him close, as he whispered against her skin. “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me. Please Cirimeni, not again.”

 _I promise_ , she had traced across his arms, kissing the tears off his cheek.  _I promise. I won’t leave you alone ever again._

A promise. That’s right. She’d promised.

 **Yes** , she signs.

Her vision goes white, and she feels it, ripping through her, becoming her, settling under her skin, threatening to push her out if she does not accept, threatening to turn monstrous and violent, just at the edges of mania, and she burns for what feels like eternity before she opens her eyes and finds herself staring up at the ceiling, ears ringing with the tail end of a scream.

It takes her a few moments to realize that the screams are her own.

A hand goes to her throat, clutching, and she lets out a whimper.

She can  _speak_. No time to think about it. She has a job to do. It does not matter, that she can speak. She knows that, or perhaps she doesn’t, but Purpose makes her think that she does. Her entire body tingles, like static electricity crawling just under her skin, hypersensitive and almost painful.

Is this what being a mage is like?

She has no time to wonder, again, as she stands, and Purpose pushes her forward. She needs to go now. She and Dirthamen need to  _go_ , before it is too late.

And she knows, where Felasel is. Just as Dirthamen knows Selene. Longing can always feel the thing it aches for, and Purpose’s path toward its goal does not waver.

“Let’s go,” She says, in a voice that is hers but also not her own. Foreign in so many ways, because she can hear Purpose as well, echoing in the words. Resolute and stubborn, unwilling to back down now that it has latched onto the thing it has chosen for itself.

She looks to Dirthamen, and see him as Purpose sees him, cloaked in living shadows, mottled featherlike patterns shifting across pale skin, transforming with the light, six eyes staring into the darkness around her, seeing for himself what Longing sees.

“Do you know the way?” The underlying tones are mournful, wistful, like a hushed whisper, and a desperate plea; rain against a window, or an echo in a cave repeating itself again and again and  _searching_  for some kind of reply.

Cirimeni nods, but it is Purpose who speaks.

“ ** _Yes_**.”

 

~

 

The next time Selene wakes, she is no longer with Felasel.

 

She searches for him, as best she can through the still-lingering haze of reality-affirmation and feels a soft pulse on the other side of the concrete wall.

Thick. Too thick for her to break through.

She tries to move, and feels her wrists and ankles have been bound to some sort of metal sheet. Even her neck has been strapped beneath a metal collar.

 

A sword pokes into her side as a figure comes into focus.

“Those were good kids, y'know,” they grumble.  “Didn’ deserve to die like that.”

“Sorry, must’ve gotten confused what with all the kidnapping and murder they were doing,” She returns.

 

“Wouldn’ expect a demon to understand. Shame. Would’ve been a hell of a convert story,” they say with a heavy sigh. “But I’ve got my orders. We can do this nice and easy, where you answer my questions an’ I can give you an’ your boy a swift death. Or we can do this the way the Knight-Commader is gunning for, an’ we see how much pain a demon can take before they snap.”

“You’re welcome to ask anything you want, it’s not like I’m going anywhere,” Selene jokes, noticeably pulling at her restraints. Nothing budges. And nothing when she pulls for her magic, either. The whole room must be warded, she thinks. Not surprising, but disappointing. “I can’t promise you’ll enjoy my answers, though.”

 

“Well lets see what we can manage, hm?” they respond with a smile as they pull up a small wooden stool. “Let’s begin with somethin’ easy. What’s your name?”

“Desire.”

The bark out a laugh “Yeah, I s'pose so. Got a human name, though?”

“I’ve never been human, so no.”

“Ah, yeah. Those pointy ears of yours,” they nod, fingers rubbing the tip of one gingerly. Selene turns her head as best she can to yank them out of their hand, and they laugh again. “Here I though’ you'da  _liked_ it,”

“Even demons have standards.”

“Ah, I’m no’ all bad. Let’s move on though shall we? Your son got a name?”

“Pride,” Selene answers, swallowing down the memory of another son that carried the name for entirely different reasons.

“Sure, sure. Breedin’ and bleedin’ are you?”

Selene’s eyebrows scrunch together “What?”

“Y'know. Pop out a baby, cast a little blood magic, stick ‘em with a demon an’ see who survives,”

“The shit you people come up with…. **No** , I would never do that. Not to my child, not to  _anyone_. That’s not even how it works. Do you people just sit around a table all day and come up with lies of the most abhorrent things you can imagine?”

 

“Sometimes, on a slow day,” they shrug “But there’ve been rumors of a whole nest of you lot wanderin’ around.  _Unusual_. Then you rage about your son and, well, connections get made. Tell you wha’, I’ll cut ya a deal. Tell me the names, the  _real_  names of the others, an’ I’ll help you an’ your boy get out.”

“Sure, because that doesn’t sound shady as fuck. Besides, there’s no names to give you,”

 

“Awww, don’ be like that. We coul’ be  _friends_ , you an’ me. Someone to keep the templars away from you an’ your boy could be useful, righ’?”

“There’s no names to give you,” Selene repeats.

 

The Templar lets out a heavy sigh as they stand, moving their stool up against the wall “Alrigh’. Have it your way then.” 

They flick off the lights until there is a single one, directly above Selenes head left on. She blinks, turning her head to the side to try to settle her eyes when a hand pats the side of her face, forcing her to look straight up.

“Las’ chance. Names? I’ll even settle for a location.”

“There’s no names to give you,” Selene repeats again.

 

They just nod, and pull out a cart of items before laying a rag over her face. “Alrigh’, have it your way.”

When the water hits, Selene jumps. Her wrists pull at her restraints, legs struggling to get free, while her brain screams at her that she is drowning,  _she is drowning, she is going to die-_

And then the rag is pulled away and she gasps for breath.

 

“Names?” The Templar repeats.

“There’s no names to give you,” she reiterates in between deep gulps of air.

They just shake their head in disappointment, and place the rag back on her face.

–

Felasel wakes up when he hears his mother screaming on the other side of the wall.

Reaching for Pride he finds…very little. Just an exhausted and worn down spirit, curled up and telling him to come back later.

 _Useless_.

_There is nothing we can do for her from here. We are in their territory, and we are alone. Wait for the right moment, or we will lose._

 

Felasel grumbles, but can’t argue the point. He tries to tune out his mothers cries, focusing on his own situation instead. Chained to the wall. Not the most imaginative, he thinks.

But he has little time to consider his own improvements before another team of templars enter in full armor.

“More sheep for the slaughter?” He sneers.

 

They don’t respond, the three of them instead moving around the darkened room. Bits of metal can be heard clanging together, and before long there is a vice on his left foot, lined with metal points.

 

One of them takes a seat beside his foot while another stands just out of arms reach for him. The third keeps their sword drawn. Learning from the others mistakes, he supposes.

The vice turns once, points digging into his nail beds and the pressure unmistakable when the one in front of him asks.

 

“Who are the others?”

“ 'Others’?”

“The other demons.”

Felasel laughs. “What makes you think there are more of us?”

 

The vice turns again, and the metal digs into his skin. Felasel bites back a scream as he feels something wet and warm begin to drip down his toes.

“Names.” They reiterate.

“Luke Skywalker.”

 

The one in front of him frowns, and the vice turns again.

“Names.”

“Xena, Warrior Princess.”

 

The vice turns again, an unmistakable cracking noise filling the room as his bones begin to break beneath the pressure.

 

“ _Names._ ”

“Nyota Uhura, Leonard McCoy, and James Tiberius Kirk,” Felasel spits out.

 

The vice turns again and again, and Felasel curses and scream and yells.

“ _ **Names**_.”

Felasel breathes deeply, sweat from the pain dripping from his brow while they fit another set onto his right hand.

 

“My name…” he breathes, eyeing his fingers. Fingers that traced Cirimenis face, her hair. Fingers used to spell out words and thoughts and promises of love for her. He would give anything to keep her safe, to keep her protected.

And he would do the same for his family.

For Eda, for Uthvir, for Varawell.

“My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

 

His knuckles crack first.

–

“Well, tha’s all the water I had brough’ in,” The Templar says as they finally pull the rag away from Selenes face, tossing it carelessly onto her stomach instead. “You’re a tough little thing, aren’t you?”

Selene doesn’t respond, trying to blink away the spots behind her eyes and convince herself that she isn’t drowning, she’s fine, she’s fine, she didn’t talk and she’s  _fine_.

 

“Tha’s ok,” they grin, slapping the side of her face to snap her attention back to them “I’m a stubborn old thing. This’ll be fun.”

They move out of her range of sight, and Selene tries to reach for Felasel. She can hear him screaming and she has to help him, she has to get to him, has to  _save_  him.

  
The stool scrapes against the ground as the Templar pulls it back over beside them.

“These’re some lovely nails,” they comment with a sickening grin “D'you paint them yourself?”

 

Selene doesn’t answer, doesn’t trust her own mouth. Don’t give them away, don’t give them away. Uthvir is probably some place far away and well hidden by now. Melarue too, and they likely disappeared before anyone even knew there was something to run from, really. Eda is still safe with her dragons, and Varawell is visiting, so they should be safe together.

She probably will die here, she realizes.

Better alone than to give up the others, though.

She just wishes she hadn’t taken Felasel down with her.

 

The Templar hums some pop tune under their breath as they insert small sharpened chips of wood beneath each of her nails, and happily holds up a small hammer and a pair of pliers.

“Do demons still bleed red? I’ve always wondered, y'know. I’ve never actually  _foun’_  one of you to try these things out on before. It’s a very excitin’ day for me!”

 

Selene spits in their face, and tries to pull for Des again.

They just laugh.

“Well! Let’s see wha’s beneath curtain number one then, yeah?”

 

She screams when the first nail comes off. Skin that shouldn’t be exposed open and sensitive, and they just keep  _touching it,_ _ **stop touching it, stop it, STOP IT.**_

The second isn’t any easier, and she thinks she might be crying now, wet tears spilling from her eyes and making everything blurry. By the third, she’s pretty sure her body is going into shock. She can still feel her nail being pulled away, the wood being hammered into her skin but it’s not as jarring. It feels detached from her, like it’s happening to someone else.

It’s a feeling she hasn’t experienced in quite some time, really.

 

When he pulls at the fourth one, something begins to tug at her chest. Something familiar.

Something old.

Something that shouldn’t be.

 

 _Longing_ , Des whispers from somewhere deep within the fade.

 

~

 

The cold hits the room first. 

The laughing, singing, Templar torturers breath starts to show when the temperature falls. Small white puffs drifting out from between cracked lips over the sound of crunching bones. Bored of Selene’s numbness to the deliberate tortures, they’ve shifted to using the hammer to simply whack at her. A few side smacks to the face, cold iron against hot flesh and bright bursts of color flashing behind her swollen eyelids.

And then her shoulder shatters as the blunt tool smashes against it, and she screams. Pain blossoming through her body, all the way down to her toes. Every twitch becomes agony, and the single light above her head goes out.

She can still hear cracking, but she doesn’t feel the swing of the hammer. The temperature drops further, and a glance to the side shows ice crawling up the walls, revealing it to be the source of the noise.

 _Longing is here,_  Des whispers, just before the door explodes into shards. Icy, sharp, darting out in every direction.

The Templar never sees it coming, their body becoming a pincushion, littered with debris in an instant.

 

Something dark, and large, and looming glides into the room. It lingers over-top of Selene, and she strains to bring it into focus through her barely-working eyes.

 

“I found you,” it breathes.

 

 _Oh no_.

_No._

_**No** _ **.**

No, this can’t be happening. Dirthamen is dead. They killed him, they left him to burn in the fire. He can’t be here, he can’t be  _saving_  her.

Something has stolen his voice.

He can’t have…he didn’t….he  _couldn’t, he_ _ **wouldn’t**_ _._

  
Long limb-like shadows crawl around her, slipping between her skin and her binds, snapping them with ease to release her. A low growl rumbles from it as it slides between her throat and the metal wrapped around it. It breaks, and she is free. Selene tries to stand, tries to move, somehow. But pain bursts from her shoulder when she tries to push herself up, and a scream escapes her instead.

 

“Please be careful,” the creature begs. Its tendrils wrap around her, and she struggles against it. But it is delicate, and so, so careful as it pulls her towards it, cradling her to its chest. She looks up again, in the darkness. Unending and cold, but so intimately familiar by now, unmistakable.

It  _is_  him.

Alive.

Her body relaxes, and settles into his grip as she begins to sob. At the relief of having him here, of having him alive. At the grief that he is like her, now. At everything this is going to mean, at everything it might change about him.

But he does not rush her. Does not tell her to pack away her emotions and focus on their current situation. He just waits, and holds her, and very deliberately tries not to worsen her wounds.

Selene knows, though. The world won’t wait for her to grieve, and her son is here somewhere. Also in pain, and in need of help.

 

“We have to find Felasel,” She manages while trying to sit up again. But Dirthamen and Longing just hold her closer, and exude calmness over her until she settles once more.

“Purpose has him,” he informs her after a moment.

Selene frowns, about to ask him for an elaboration before light leaks back into the room.

“We need to go,” Comes Cirimeni’s voice with a disturbing echo from the hallway. Selene turns to look, only to see a brief flash of light before Dirthamen pulls her back into his darkness and they begin to move. He does not put her down, only carries her as they glide back down the corridor and out of the compound. Blood spatters on the walls, Templar corpses littering the ground.

 

Felasel is unconscious in Cirimenis arms. But still alive and breathing.

“We need someplace safe to go,” She says, golden light still flecking from her with each stride.

 

Selene swallows. They can’t go back to anyplace she’s stayed in the last few years. Too possible they know about it, and could trace them there. They can’t go to Eda’s, because if they’re followed it could put her and Varawell in danger. Velani, Melarue, and Uthvir are all in hiding and might, potentially offer them a safe place to stay and recover, but Selene has no idea how to even get in touch with them right now.

There’s only one place they can go, really. One place she’s always kept off the books, one place she wanted to let rot away to the ages.

 

“I know someplace,” Selene gets out, jaw still aching with each movement “But it’s far from here.”

“Good,” Purpose nods.

 

 _Are you sure this is a good idea?_  Des inquires.

 

_I’m open to a better one, if you’re offering._

 

Nothing but silence comes from him, until he opens a space for them to travel through. A shortcut through the fade.

Purpose steps through without hesitation, and Longing carries them in as the portal seals closed behind them. Selene tries not to focus on everyone’s changed appearance here. On the horns and tail she can feel on her own body, on the feathers and shadows pouring off of Dirthamen. On Felasel’s spikes and gauntlets, or Cirimeni’s wings of light while he twists in her arms, overwhelmed at the abundance of magic in the area.

With a silent apology to her son, she gives Des the last of her reserves to open the portal on the other side, and back into reality.

 

They step through onto the porch of the estate. Long overgrown by now, plants of various kinds devouring the house and the long driveway. The gate is crawling with vines, camouflaging the location quite nicely. Selene has been keeping an eye on the space since its original owners passed. Partially due to suspicion of what sort of experiments were conducted here, and partially in respect to their children in whose names the deed still technically lies.

But it’s not the house that will keep them safe. It’s the tunnels beneath it, designed by the wife of the owner for use on her experiments, and still the most elaborately protected and reinforced building she’s ever seen.

Des is already riling, ready to leave and go anywhere else. Insisting that bringing Dirthamen and Felasel here is counteractive to keeping them safe, despite the fact that the original dangers are long dead and buried far away by now.

“Where is this?” Longing muses, multiple eyes shifting down to look at Selene in wonder as they follow Purposes steps to the interior.

“This was your sister Andruils estate, once,” Selene answers. “This is where I said Yes to Des.”

 

 ~

 

 ** _It will do_** , Purpose announces, as they head inside, directed by Desire.

Longing moves slowly, as it always has, and Purpose has to prod it along. Felasel needs to be  _secure_  before they can stop. And the entryway is old, the wards faint, all the magic gone from them. They need to go down, down to where Des has directed them.

It is a…hidden basement of sorts, and at first the concrete walls and linoleum floor make her think of the Templar compound, and Purpose tenses. There are wards for protection here, but also spells for holding, and binding, and silence. Cirimeni does not know them, but Purpose does, and tells her what they mean as she holds Felasel close and tries not to move him too much.

She needs to set him down and look him over. She needs  _Selene_ to look him over, because Selene is a healer and will know what to do. But Selene is nearly asleep, staying awake by sheer willpower, and she’s injured too. Cirimeni knows that Selene would heal Felasel if she could, but she doesn’t have the energy for anything right now, and Des is running low as well.

Cirimeni knows Felasel won’t die. Pride had healed the wounds it could, when they’d entered the Fade and left the binding wards of the compound. He isn’t bleeding anymore, but he’s still unconscious, and the wounds are not fully closed. She doesn’t want to hurt him.

 ** _We must get him to a room to rest_** , Purpose directs.

There are many rooms that line the long hallway. Most have barred windows on the doors; a few have been forcefully pulled open, and the doors hang at odd angles. There is nothing left living in this place, but the atmosphere makes Cirimeni nervous.

They pass two laboratories, full off test tubes and the noxious smell of ammonia, before they come across what looks like an old rec room. There are a few couches along a wall surrounding a coffee table, and an attached kitchenette.

Dirthamen and Longing head toward one of the couches and sag down onto it, holding Selene like she’s made of glass as the springs groan and a small puff of dust lifts into the air. 

Selene lets out a sigh of her own, and Dirthamen murmurs in a voice that isn’t quite his own, and then the pair go silent, and the corner of the room gets a little darker.

Cirimeni tries to be gentle with Felasel, as she places him on the second couch and looks him over. Pride has retreated further into the Fade, worn out and weak, but it replies in the affirmative when Purpose asks if it is well enough to keep Felasel alive.

Cirimeni brushes a few strands of hair from Felasel’s forehead, and places a kiss to his cheek before she stands.

She and Purpose need to secure this place, need to make certain that no one is following. Felasel is safe but he is not safe  _enough_.

“Watch him,” Purpose orders, and Cirimeni asks, as she looks to Dirthamen, and he opens his eyes and blinks, with a small nod.

She doesn’t want to leave Felasel, but Purpose and Longing are connected, closer even, perhaps, than Purpose and herself. Longing will look after Selene and Felasel both because Purpose will tell it to, and Longing listens.

And she needs to be doing  _something_. She can’t sit still, not when sitting still means doing nothing—something Purpose abhors—and not when a moment of silence means she will have to look back on what she’s done.

She heads up to the surface again, to secure the basement door. The lock is intricate, but it is old, and she fears it won’t hold against a large force. She pulls several pieces of aged furniture up in a barricade around it, and locks it from inside and stands on the small landing, before the stairs go down to the hallway, and thinks.

The best thing to do would be to get a few of the filing cabinets and lab tables from the other rooms and put them up against the landing. Purpose can do the wards, she doesn’t know them. She doesn’t know anything about the magic flowing through her—how to wield it, how to make it stop skittering across her skin like a thousand spider legs.  

She heads down the steps again to begin building the secondary barricade.

**_We need to check if there are any other exits. We will need to make a plan for escape. We will need to wake up Longing every few hours or it will fall deep into the Fade and be useless if something attacks._ **

Cirimeni nods, things to do, things to do…she begins making a mental list, and Purpose surges forward with more suggestions.

**_Once we’ve put up the barricade and checked for exits, we should look at Felasel, and speak with Pride._ **

Speak with Pride? She’s never spoken with it directly, not even after Felasel had told her about it. She’d never found a desire to, not when to her Pride was…something separate. Still there, but more of an afterthought.

 ** _I will not be an afterthought_** , Purpose pushes back.

No, Cirimeni supposes it won’t be. It’s different when she’s got a spirit of her own, part of her and always there, even if it’s off in the Fade. But she knows that Purpose shouldn’t be so close to the surface, unless things are dire. She knows because she’s only seen Pride that way once. Felasel will have to teach her how to push Purpose back.

**_It is important that I am here. We must protect Felasel._ **

_We will talk later_ , Cirimeni promises, but there’s little force behind it. She also doesn’t want to talk to Pride because it means…it means talking with Felasel. And she’s afraid of what he’ll say.

She knows he’s going to be angry. Angry that she and Dirthamen kept this from him, and that she’s become like him. And he’s going to be worried, and he’s hurt and…and she doesn’t want him to be angry  _or_  to hurt.

 _Let’s keep him asleep for a while_ , Cirimeni urges, as she drags a filing cabinet out of a room.  _So that he can heal._

 ** _There is much to be done,_** Purpose urges. ** _We need to speak with Pride._**

“I don’t want to!” She bites back, and her voice is loud in the hallway. It sounds so odd to her, huskier than she’d figured it would be, and the words come out oddly, like her mouth isn’t sure how to form them.

Purpose shrinks back slightly, and she catches a glimpse of herself in the reflection of a laboratory window.

Her dress is torn, and covered in blood and smoke and things she can’t identify. She’s a mess.  _Everything_  is a mess.  _Felasel hates messes_ , she thinks as she sucks in a ragged breath, and that’s when it all just…caves in on itself; everything she’s been holding back rushes to the surface.

She crumples to the ground, legs giving out, and lets out a sob. She did so many terrible things. She killed so many people, and she did it without thinking. She did it because she thought they  _deserved_  it and no one, no one deserved the things she did.

She can still hear the last man pleading for his life, an echo that reverberates in her skull and refuses to leave.

She killed them all.

She’s a  _murderer_.

If Fenris could see her now, what would he do? He’d kill her, wouldn’t he? Call her a monster, reach his hand into her chest and  _pull_  and she’d let him because she IS isn’t she?

She leans over the side of the filing cabinet and vomits.

There isn’t anything in her stomach other than bile, as she heaves and coughs and sobs.

How could she?

**_We did what we must. You chose this, so that we could save him._ **

She knows that. She  _does_. Selene and Felasel would be dead if she hadn’t joined with Purpose and helped Dirthamen and Longing. And she would choose it again, in a heartbeat, if it meant she could save him.

Felasel…Felasel is her  _everything_.

But that doesn’t stop how awful she feels.

She won’t tell him.

She won’t tell anyone, about the life that ended when Purpose took hold. She’ll hold that death close most of all, because she made that decision without any influence from Purpose. She can’t blame it for pushing her to such a choice. She can’t blame anyone but herself.

She leans over and vomits again.

 

~

 

Longing is old.

That is the first thing Des tells Selene, when they have regained enough strength in the dreaming. Longing is very old, and very large, and very  _powerful_.

Many believed they had disappeared a long, long time ago. That they are awake, and have only been resting and hiding makes Des nervous in a way Selene has never seen.

 

 _Did you know them?_  She asks.

 

_Parts of me did._

 

_What does that mean?_

 

_It means spirits can change. They often lose pieces of themselves in the process, and gain new ones in their place. The Me that you know, the spirit I am now, and that I was when we met, is a conglomeration of several other pieces._

 

_Pieces of what?_

 

_Myself, mostly. Who I was before I was betrayed._

 

_Who betrayed you?_

 

Des is silent, for several long beats before responding with a soft  _We are not all lucky enough to be as loved as you are. Sometimes an arrow through the heart is slow, and unexpected, and notched by the person you would have died for willingly._

 

_You’ve never mentioned this before._

 

_I don’t remember most of it. Just flashes and pain, really. Nothing I’d want to explore, not when there are other things in life I want more with significantly lower costs._

 

_…Did Longing betray you?_

 

_No. No, definitely not. Longing saved the pieces of me that they could, and tore away the parts they could not._

 

_So the two of you were friends, then._

 

_Perhaps. They had something else they wanted to save that they filled in some of the holes with, so it’s not like it was just charity._

 

_What did they put in you?_

 

_I don’t remember._

 

_Well that’s helpful._

 

 _It was_ _**thousands** _ _of years ago. Do you know how long it took me to reform? I missed most of the creation of this world, and I was barely awake when I found you._

_Alright, alright. Didn’t mean to pick on the elderly._

 

 _And yet Longing still makes me look young. Be_ _**careful** _ _._

 

Selene emits a soft groan, eyes blinking slowly open as she wakes. The relief hits her first, when she sees Dirthamens face, almost outweighing the pain resonating through her shoulder and fingers. And then her stomach begins to twist, as she takes in his appearance.

Well.

Appearance _s._

 

It’s a bit like watching someone flip through her old photo albums, at first. His features subtly shifting through various arrangements. Jawlines from centuries past, lifetimes that ended. Ears that can not seem to decide where they’d like to end, or how far to extend. Eyes that can not focus, blinking one at a time and each opening to a slightly different shade of blue. Hair much longer than she has ever seen him grow it out, and blooming into pitch dark feathers as it falls.

 

“I have found you,” he whispers again, clutching her to his chest between two arms of different lengths while tendrils of shadow curl over and around her legs.

“You should not have gone looking,” She berates him. “You could have been killed.”

“And you would have been, if we had not. I can not lose you again.”

 

Selene just shakes her head “Dirthamen…”

“Selene…” he murmurs, nuzzling his still shifting face into her neck. “Selene, Selene, Selene…” he repeats. The shadows around them grow darker, and when she wraps her arms around him she feels nothing but feathers.

“Dirthamen, I need you to focus, ok?”

 

“We are trying,” he sighs into her neck between more whispers of her name, eyelashes fluttering against her skin. Selenes concern only grows when 3 sets of wings wrap around her, pulling her closer to him still.

 

“You need to focus on you,” She warns. “Des says Longing is very old, and very tempting. I know it is overwhelming, I know it seems easier to just let them lead, but you will lose yourself if you do. Please, Dirthamen.”

 

He sighs again, but there is no change. His body still shifts, warping and reforming itself constantly against her own. Selene has to pull herself away, hands tilting his head until she can press her forehead to his, ignoring the extra eyes that keep appearing and reappearing in various places on his face as she focuses on where they are supposed to be.

“Look at me, Dirthamen. I need you, I need you here, ok? I need you with me, please.”

 

Two familiar eyes peer back at her, blinking first the left, and then the right, before managing a slow blink in unison.

“I will stay with you,” He vows, before his eyes slide closed again “We can stay right here, together. We will keep us safe, and you will not be harmed again, and we will be content.”

 

“We can’t do that, Dirthamen. You don’t want that, I  _know_  you don’t. That’s Longing speaking.”

“We are the same. I did not understand before, but it is getting clearer. We are the same, we have always been the same.”

 

“Dirthamen, you have dreams. Aspirations.  _Desires,”_  She asserts. “You will lose out on all of that if you just sit here and sleep and let Longing rule over you.”

“I may still lose them even if I try,” he counters “But if we stay here, it is always possible. An infinite number of possibilities, stretching through all of time and space to consider, and contemplate, and explore. We could do it together, forever.”

 

“We  _ **can’t**_.”

“We could, though. That is the beauty of it.”

“That is  **nothing** , Dirthamen. It is an illusion, a labyrinth and cage of yours and Longings making, and it gives you  _nothing_. Life is happening, whether you observe it or not. Time will pass, and it  **will** claim us all, and if you sit here you will have missed everything. You will become frozen in your moment, filled with desires and possibilities until it all vanishes into dust and nothingness, and you are  _not_ nothing. You are a loving husband, and a wonderful Father with a son who needs you. You are brilliant, and bright, and clever and you have so many things you want to do and experience and learn about in your life. I want to help you do those things, but  _you_  must be the one to make the choice. I can not do it for you. You have to _want_  to get up.”

 

His eyes open again. One long, slow blink. And then another. And then his feathers begin to fall away from him, floating to the floor. The shadows recede, and his features become solid, and stable. She can still see Longing, six wings sprouting from his back, but they are fading, now. A shudder wracks through him, and Selene holds him tightly, ignores the blinding pain in her hands and shoulder as he finally settles back into himself. Until it is just her and him, sitting on the couch.

And then it is his turn to sleep, exhausted from the transformation and the stress and strain of letting Longing rule for so long a time. She lays him down flat on the couch, and presses her lips to his forehead before standing.

 

Felasel will need help, too. And probably also Cirimeni, if she can find her.

Selene pours just enough energy into her wounds to numb herself to the pain, and moves over to the second couch to begin healing her son.

 

~

 

Purpose makes her get up again.  

Makes her get up each time she feels like collapsing, so that she can continue making the place secure. It reminds her of what they must do, and it is easier to let it decide for the two of them.

But she is finding less and less to pick up and move. She and Purpose will have torn the entire place apart soon, and then she’ll  _have_  to face Felasel.

The lab tables are bolted to the ground. It takes some effort, to pull them up. Metal shrieks, and the sound echoes in the empty hallways. She winces, hoping that the sound hasn’t awoken the others. They need to rest, even if Purpose thinks otherwise.

 ** _Longing is asleep,_**  Purpose announces.  ** _He will be useless there in the Fade. He needs to be HERE if he is going to do anything, so that I can make him._**

 _DIRTHAMEN is here_ , Cirimeni argues,  _Longing has to stay in the Fade so that Dirthamen can be here._

**_They can both be here, like us._ **

_You need to go back too._

**_Not now._ **

_Not…not now. But soon_ , Cirimeni suggests. Purpose does not answer right away, and when it speaks again, as they make their way back to the barricade, it does not mention going away.

 ** _Longing has always been this way. Always wanting and thinking and never doing,_**  Purpose berates, as Cirimeni continues stacking cabinets.  ** _Longing did not want to come before. I did. I would have come much sooner, and killed all the Templars before this. Then we would not have this problem._**

_You can’t just kill all the Templars._

**_Yes we can. Longing and I are strong. Stronger than Desire and Pride_** , it sounds oddly smug,  ** _Stronger than all the others._**

_No one can do it alone._

**_We are not alone. We have Longing and Dirthamen, and Felasel and Pride,_** it pauses,  ** _Felasel cannot come. It is not safe enough. We will take Desire and Selene instead, and keep Felasel safe here with Pride._**

_What did you mean when you said Longing did not want to come before?_

Purpose grabs a desk with its extra limbs and huffs ** _, It wanted to come. It has always wanted to find her. But it wouldn’t. Longing is foolish that way. I am always suffering from Longing’s foolishness. I could have been here much sooner, and found my purpose earlier, if Longing would have come along as well._**

_Are you afraid to go without it?_

**_I am not afraid of anything!_**  Purpose shoots back.  ** _I do not NEED Longing._**

Cirimeni nods, and reaches for the second desk.

 ** _Perhaps I need Longing a little,_**  Purpose concedes.  ** _We have always been together. Longing belongs to me, except when others take it._**

 _Longing is with Dirthamen, and Dirthamen and Selene are in love_ , Cirimeni reminds it.  _You can’t bully Longing anymore. I won’t let you._

 ** _I am not bullying anyone. Longing is simply stupid and needs me to tell it what to do_** , Purpose explains, sounding more like a petulant child than an ancient spirit.  ** _If I do not, it will just sit there._**

_Selene and Desire will keep it from just sitting there._

Purpose huffs again.  ** _That is MY job._**

 _We must protect Felasel,_  Cirimeni reminds it _. We will let Desire and Longing protect each other. And we will protect Felasel and Pride._  She winces a bit, at the mention of Pride. Now Purpose will want to talk to it again, and she does not.

**_I do not need PRIDE to protect me._ **

Cirimeni smiles for the first time in what feels like ages.  _I think you two are very similar._  The smile fades quickly, though, as Purpose takes this as a chance to needle her into looking in on Felasel.

**_We should check. Just in case Longing has fallen asleep and is smothering him under itself._ **

Cirimeni pauses,  _has this happened before?_

 ** _It COULD happen,_**  Purpose prods. Cirimeni’s concern for Felasel’s well-being wins out, even though she knows how ludicrous the proposed situation is. So she heads back down the hall, slowly, trying to drag it out, but also ridiculously worried that somehow Longing is slowly crushing Felasel beneath itself.

She glances into the room, to where Dirthamen and Felasel are resting on couches. Selene is leaning over Felasel, and Purpose grumbles a bit, wanting to go over itself, but Cirimeni remains where she is.

Watching.

 _See? Longing hasn’t squashed anyone. We can go back_.

 ** _It isn’t fair that Desire gets to do what it wants all the time_** , Purpose grumbles.  ** _Felasel is OUR Purpose._**

 _Selene is Felasel’s mother_ , Cirimeni scolds, hand tightening on the door-frame. She feels torn between needing to touch Felasel, talk to him and make certain he’s alright, and never talking to him again.

She’s so afraid he’ll hate her now.

_He liked the me that didn’t hurt anyone. He liked the me that wouldn’t ever do something like that but I did._

**_He will like us,_** Purpose boasts, but even it sounds oddly uncertain.  ** _He will like us because I am the best, and you are with me, and he is our purpose. We chose him, that makes him special. He will like us._**

Still, Cirimeni finds herself pulling away and back down the hall. There is still much to do, to make certain that Felasel is safe. A few rooms left unchecked, surely. And she will need to get food for them all from somewhere.

They will need food, and water, and clean clothing and—

“Cirimeni?”

Cirimeni turns to see Selene standing a few feet away, looking tired and a little uncertain. Cirimeni cannot see Des anywhere. It must be further back in the Fade, then. Where it should be. Where  _Purpose_ should be, a part of her knows.

But there is too much to do, and only Purpose knows how to do it.

She gives a small, shy nod, and some tension leaves Selene’s shoulders as she walks toward her.

“You have to rest Cirimeni,” Selene reaches for her. “You’ve used too much magic.”

Cirimeni shakes her head, and begins signing, even as her lips fumble with words, “Can’t.”  **Have to make sure everyone is ok. We have to** _…_ She drops her hands down, and then motions toward the barricade she’s been building. “…We can’t stop…”

“ _You_  have to stop, Cirimeni,” Selene reiterates. “ _You_  have to tell Purpose that it needs to go back.  _You_  need to push Purpose back. If you don’t, you’ll lose yourself.”

Another shake of her head. She can’t, not until they’re all safe. Not until she’s sure.  _Then_  she can push Purpose back.

But what if Purpose just keeps telling her that their work isn’t done?

 ** _We have to keep going,_**  Purpose prods, sounding a bit uneasy.  ** _It ISN’T done yet._**

Cirimeni doesn’t think it will  _ever_  be done.

She collapses against Selene, who catches her, albeit unsteadily. She’s still tired too, still weak and injured in her own right.  ** _We can help, we have plenty of strength left,_**  Purpose suggests. But Cirimeni isn’t going to shove magic into anyone without asking first, and she can’t find it in her to ask.

Cirimeni clings to Selene, face pressed against her neck. She tries to sign, but her hands are shaking too much, and Purpose is shining through again, all talons and brightness.

“I’m so glad you’re ok.” She gets out. Selene, who is warm and welcoming and kind. Selene, who she was so nervous to meet for the first time, and who took her in her arms and it felt like a mother’s arms should. Selene may not be her purpose, but she loves her just the same, and she had been terrified for her. Terrified that Dirthamen and Longing would be too late.

“I’m fine.” Selene tries to pat her on the back, between wings and extra limbs it’s difficult, but she manages. “And Dirthamen is fine, and  _Felasel_ is fine. So you need to rest too.”

She shudders, and shakes her head.

“Do you want to see Felasel?”

 ** _YES,_**  Purpose booms, but Cirimeni just shakes her head again, and buries her face further against the torn neckline of Selene’s shirt, until she realizes that she’s probably hurting her, by holding on so tight. She loosens her grip a bit.

“Why don’t you want to see Felasel, Cirimeni?”

Cirimeni swallows.  _I killed them_ , she signs, before she remembers that Selene can’t see it from this angle, and murmurs the words.

The silence stretches, and an empty gnawing hole begins to form in Cirimeni’s chest as she waits.

“…yes. Yes you did.” Selene acknowledges, after a time, still rubbing her back. Slow, steady circles that have Cirimeni’s eyes drooping, even as Purpose tells her they still have work to do.

“He’s going to  _hate_  me now.” Cirimeni sighs.

Selene pulls back a bit, to look Cirimeni in the eyes, frowning ever so slightly. “Why would he hate you?”

Cirimeni blinks. “I killed people.”

Selene gives her a tired smile, “So have I. So has Felasel, and Dirthamen. You wanted to keep us safe, Cirimeni.”

Cirimeni sniffles, “I hated it.” Which is true. She hates that she did it so easily, even if it was to protect the people she loves. Purpose doesn’t understand that, but Selene will, she knows.

Selene cups her cheeks, and presses a kiss to her forehead, “I’m glad,” she slowly stands, detangles herself from Purpose’s extra limbs, “I’d be worried if you didn’t care, but you do. You’re still yourself, Cirimeni. You just need to push Purpose back, and stay in control.”

Purpose doesn’t agree, but Cirimeni finds herself nodding, as she stands as well, taking the hand that Selene offers. “…I want to see Felasel first, I think, or Purpose won’t be quiet.”

 ** _I am not a child,_**  Purpose pouts.

Selene nods. “Alright, let’s go see Felasel.”

 

~

 

Felasel wakes to his mother carefully plying his fingers back and forth.

They still hurt, but it’s a dull pain, at least. Not the worst he’s had, not blinding like it was.

Cirimeni is standing beside her. With wings.

Those are new.

Not  _bad_  new, but new.

There’s a flirt in here somewhere he picked up about angels, he thinks, but his head is throbbing too much to put it together.

 

“How’re you feeling?” Selene whispers,  eyes briefly darting between his face and his fingers.

 

“Not great,” he admits “I’d kill for a batch of cupcakes to be honest. Even store brand.”

 

Cirimenis face splits into a grin as her eyes begin to water. He glances up at her, and offers her one of his softer smiles back. “My hero,” he commends. She shifts slightly on her feet, wings unfurling behind her and he watches the nervousness roll off of her.

 

 _She’s worried,_ Pride grumbles. _Comfort her._

 

“Are you alright, Cirimeni?” Felasel asks, wincing slightly as his mother switches her attentions to his other hand.

 

She pauses, obviously having an internal conversation with Purpose judging from the blinking lights, and nods.

 

He watches his mother raise a skeptical eyebrow before letting out a heavy sigh in a voice less hers than usual “If  _you_  won’t start this conversation, I  _will_.”

 

Cirimeni shifts on her feet again, wings curling and unfolding in uncertainty before her mouth opens and her hands begin to move.

 _I killed someone_. She signs.

 

Felasel nods. “Yeah. I was there, I’m pretty sure.”

 

Selene snorts and releases his hand while Cirimeni stumbles with her fingers some more, the occasional word trailing out of her mouth alongside its correlating symbol.

_You don’t hate me?_

 

“Do you hate me?” Felasel inquires, and Pride leans forward just a bit in attention.

 

“ _No!_ ” she blurts.

 

“I’ve killed people. I’ve killed lots of people. I killed three templars in the first room alone, and those were hardly my first time. Do you think less of me for it?”

 

Cirimeni shakes her head again, shoulders relaxing slightly as he continues.

 

“I’ve got bloodier hands than you do,” he assures her. “You killed because you had to, because you were in a daze, because of…Purpose, was it? I don’t think any less of you for doing what you needed to keep people safe, I certainly don’t love you any less for  _saving_  me. I  _ **am**_  both mildly impressed and wildly curious how you managed to get yourself possessed despite  _not being a mage_ , though. When you have the time, I’d like to have a very long, detailed conversation with the two of you about how precisely that happened.”

 

“Eda’s not a mage,” Selene notes as she shifts her focus to the bones in his feet and toes.

 

“Eda didn’t do it herself, and we never managed to track down the person who gave her Sorrow.”

 

Selene just hums as she carefully prods at Felasels toes to ensure they’re healing correctly. His mouth turns downward as he notices his mothers hands and missing nails. “What did they do to you?”

 

“Just a bit of a manicure,” she dismisses “I’m fine.”

 

It’s right about then that the other couch disappears into a blanket of darkness. Felasel turns to look at it, and Pride riles from the fade as it stretches towards them. Selene just sighs and shakes her head as it wraps around her though. “Good morning,” she calls “I thought you’d be sleeping longer.”

 

“You moved,” Comes his fathers voice only…not. A bit like the time they visited that series of caverns, and his voice had bounced from wall to wall, seemingly coming from all sides simultaneously.

 

“Papa too?” Felasel frowns, watching as Dirthamen emerges from the mound of darkness and slumps over one of his mothers shoulders.

 

“Purpose and Longing are a set,” Selene acknowledges “Or so I’ve gathered, from what they’ve shared.”

 

“You’re still injured,” Dirthamen mumbles. “Come rest.”

 

Felasel jumps as Selene switches to his other foot and makes an unhappy noise “I can’t. Something’s wrong.”

 

“Pretty sure what’s wrong is that you’re continuously touching my injuries,” he gripes.

  
“I healed you almost an hour ago. Your bones should at least be aligned by now, but these aren’t setting correctly..” she muses, carefully trying to move his big toe before he yelps and yanks his foot back.

 

“Did you screw it up?” Purpose snaps, because Felasel is fairly certain that is  _not_  Cirimeni’s tone.

 

“I would never purposely injure my own child,” Selene snaps back, eyes flashing gold. “He just needs a splint. Something to keep his fingers and other toes aligned wouldn’t be a bad idea either.”

 

“Or perhaps he needs someone who is actually  _competent_ at healing,” sneers Purpose.

 

Horns begin to sprout from Selenes head as she rises “ _Fine_ , then the next time I get to start over I will enroll in so called ‘proper’ medical school, but for now I am the best chance he has given that we can not visit a proper hospital, so  _Back._ _ **Off**_.”

 

Cirimeni’s glow brightens for a second before shying away. The wings vanish, and Cirimeni looks more like herself. Selene settles, tension running out of her shoulders while Dirthamen stares at the two, still half-hanging off of her while the bottom half of him is covered in feathers and more mist-like than elvhen (And Felasel should probably look into that more, too, he thinks), blending back into the shadows and the other couch.

 

 _We’re sorry,_  Cirimeni signs.

 

Selene shakes her head “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Mistakes were made on both sides, I think. We all need a bit more rest. Cirimeni, you and Purpose know the layout and what’s down here better than I do, do you think you can gather some supplies so I can get him set up in some splints?”

 

“I can get the supplies-”Felasel begins

 

“ _You_  are not permitted off of that couch. If you try to stand, your foot will only get worse, assuming you don’t immediately topple over anyways. Once your splints are set, you and Cirimeni will be resting, together, so you can keep an eye on each other. It’ll help your Pride and her Purpose to have something to do, and still allow you and Cirimeni to actually sleep. Alright?”

 

Cirimeni nods before dashing off to retrieve the supplies, and Felasel begrudgingly agrees before flopping back down onto the couch.

Selene lets out a breath of relief before turning her head to look at Dirthamen.

“How are you feeling?”

 

He blinks, head tilting slightly as he considers before nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck “Whole,” he finally admits.

 

Selene gives him a soft smile and places a kiss to the top of his head “I suppose that’s all I can ask for right now.”

 

“Come rest,” he asks her again.

 

“When I’m done with Felasel,” She promises.

 

Dirthamen does not look convinced.

 


	27. Marassal Steals Dirthamen

“Wake up! Get up! Market day, you sad lot!” The man who watches them shouts. He bangs his rod against the door frame, making a loud racket that has the older ones hissing and groaning as they roll out of bed.

Mamae urges him and his sisters out of bed and out back. Her and the other women strip them naked and toss them into a large, rusted out tub filled with cold water. He hates market days, they’re loud and scary. So scary, there’s shouting and people who look at him strange. Like they want to eat him.

He doesn’t think he’d very much care to be eaten.

But if he’s quiet, he doesn’t get his food taken away at night. So he stays quiet and whispers to his sisters to do the same. The littlest one has a hard time listening to him, so he just picks her up and holds her close and tells her not to look as they walk, single file, to the market.

The loudness is nearly deafening and his second youngest sister smooshes her hands over her ears. Mamae tries to keep them all close as possible, but it’s difficult to do when she is standing behind them and the crowd keeps pulling at her.

He can hear the men and women calling at his mamae. They want her, he knows that. They want her for themselves and they offer money to the magister that already has them. She flashes her wrist at them and hisses, wrenching herself back as they are lead into a side room. It’s already full of other elves, all like them, all dreading market day and the end results.

Mamae is  _favored_ , he knows, and she’s not going anywhere, but she needs to be here because her children are here. He likes to keep close to Mamae, that maybe if he’s close enough he’ll look like her brown skirts and they won’t see him and make him go on stage like some of the others. He pushes his sisters to their mamae, huddling around her, squinching their eyes shut and hoping for it to pass.

“How old is this one?” One of the guards asks, pushing the end of the stick into his shoulder.

“He’snine, not ready to be -  _let go of him!_ ”

Hands seize him and pull on his body, yanking him away! He screams and thrashes as the guard pulls. Mamae clutches at his arms and tries to pull him back but another guard comes over and hits her over and over until she lets go.

She lets go.

“MAMAE!! MAAAMAAE!” He screams. He can’t go on the stage! No! He’s not old enough! Mamae!

His sisters cry out and reach for him but he is small and the guard is big as he hauls him out to the stage. His clothes are stripped off of him and he is given a placard to hold. He’s crying and not pretty and naked and he wants to  _run_  but he can’t. They’ll catch him, they’ll kill him. They’ll hurt him.

His knees are weak but they somehow hold him up as he stands on the stage, eyes on him. So many eyes. Bearing into his skin like needles, picking him apart. He wants to cross his legs, curl up on the floor in a corner and not move until no one can see him anymore. But he’s frozen, stuck to the point as he’s….examined.

“Male, elven, nine years old. No known illnesses or maladies. Bidding starts at ten sovereigns.” One of the men shouts. That’s it. That’s all he is?

A man in the crowd shouts and the crowd suddenly goes silent as the man moves towards the stage.

“Archon Jovian is looking for one with these specifications,” he says and the urge to vomit is almost overwhelming.

The  _Archon_  wants….no. But then he’ll never get home again! His mamae and sisters and everyone. If  he is taken by the Archon…the Archon gets everything she wants. It’s part of being the ruler.

His heart pounds and he lurches towards the edge of the stage closest to Mamae. Strong arms come around him body again, though, and wrench him up into the air, long limbs flailing as he is taken off the stage.

No! Let go of him! “Mamae!” Please no! He’ll be better, he promises! They just have to believe him, he’ll be good! Just like the Master wants just like he wants -

He reaches for his mamae, his body fighting against the man holding him, thrusting himself outward. Something inside of him  _moves_  as he reaches, desperate to escape.  _Let me go! Let me go!_ But they don’t. They manage to cart him off the stage and to the back where a large, wooden wagon waits, already with four other elves, all older. The back smells like horse shit and it finally makes him vomit, all over himself and the man holding him.

The man swears and shoves him to the ground before grabbing  nearby bucket full of water and dumping it over his head. He gasps and sputters at the sudden shock. There isn’t any time to recover as he is picked back up and tossed into the carriage, next to the other elves. Hands grasp him and pull him back into the wagon, holding him still. The man swears and slams the door shut. There is a latching sound before the man moves away. It’s another moment before the carriage lurches into motion.

 _Mamae!_ He screams, out loud, in his head…but it doesn’t matter. He’s trapped. The hands remain latched onto him and he knows somewhere in the back of his mind that they’re only trying to help him. They’re older, they probably know….

The shifting inside of him happens again. It feels funny so he rubs at his chest. Mamae would hug him right now if he’s feeling funny, his sisters would all circle around him, leaning against his skinny body.

 _You’ll be fine, da’len, everything will be fine._ She liked to say that. He says it over and over again, curling up on the floor of the carriage as it rolls away from the market.

It is not a particularly  _long_ journey, not like visiting Master’s family in Qarinus. That is a very long journey with lots of stops and holding on tight to Mamae so he doesn’t fall off the wagon. He’d hold onto his sisters so they didn’t fall…who is going to hold them now?

The carriage stops and he tries to sink behind the other elves.  _Don’t see me, don’t see me, don’t -_

The door opens and the man from before grunts in displeasure before reaching in and grabbing him. He wriggles and fights and tries to stay in the carriage. The man’s hands are rough and hard and they pull and wrench him out of the carriage and down into the dirt.

His hands do not stop, slamming into his body over and over again. His skin is pulled tight and raw, his body curling inwards as he tries to protect himself from the blows. Evil things drip from the man’s mouth, cursing him and his family, and how  _awful_ he apparently is.

He does this again and he dies.

The blows stop.

He doesn’t move, he can’t, everything hurts - the man hauls him to his feet all the same and commands him to walk.

_You’ll be fine, da’len, everything will be fine._

Tears stream down his face as the man pushes him towards the large sprawling house. The other elves walk with them, silent and forlong. They don’t look at him, and wishes they did. He wants them to see him, but he is small and at the end of the day, they don’t know him.

No attachment. He knows that’s why they do this. He misses Mamae, he misses all the others too. The ones who liked to play with his hair and tell him stories. He misses his sisters who liked to clutch and cling to him because the world is big and scary, but their brother isn’t.

The man guides them to the slave quarters at the back of the estate. The others look up from their duties and blink before returning to their work. The man tells the older elves what their duties are and who to report to, but he doesn’t give him any instructions.

Should he ask? Should he follow one of the adults?

Thankfully, he doesn’t need to think on it much longer before the man’s hand comes down on his shoulder and guides him out towards the main house.

He swallows thickly and tries to settle his stomach.

_You’ll be fine, da’len, everything will be fine._

The man guides him into a holding room where he shoves him roughly down into a chair.

“Stay there,” the man says gruffly before leaving the room. He remains still, looking around him at the lavish room. There are baubles and books and fine silks. The window overlooks what he thinks to be where the horses are kept. It’s where Master liked to keep his horses, in open grassy areas with only a few trees.

Why is he here and not out there with the rest of them?

His legs swing over the edge of the chair, nails digging into the expensive stitching. He wonders how long it would be to pick out all the little stitches, to completely ruin it. How long would it take to ruin the house? To tear up the walls and break the furniture, to turn the feathers loose from the pillows.

The thought of destruction calms him. He practices his numbers with it. He rips up thirteen pillows, breaks the legs off of twenty chairs so…that’s four…and twenty…which is eighty legs. He ruins eight walls, digging claws that he doesn’t have into them, ripping it to shreds. He throws rocks through thirty-three windows.

All in his head of course.

He has destroyed much of the manor by the time the man comes back into the room with a woman. She’s an elf and dressed much nicer than the others he’s seen. Large earrings dangle down to her collar and the robes she wears remind him of some of the apprentices at the Master’s. But she’s an elf and there is a very distinctive piece of raised skin under her ear that he recognizes. The elves that he lived with before all had something similar. He doesn’t have it because Mamae always said he was too little for it.

He wonders if they’ll agree here.

“His heritage is unfortunate,” the woman says, walking around the chair, inspecting him not unlike how all the people stared at him at market. He resists the urge to squirm and try to cover himself. Too many eyes, needles bearing into his skin.

His nails dig into the chair even more as he struggles to keep still.

“There are ways to remedy that.”

“You speak of mutilation, it’s barbaric.”

“Look, we’ve been looking for a kid that looks just like the kid, we’re not coming up with anything. But then this kid…if it weren’t for the ears…” the man’s voice trails off and he can’t help but flinch when the woman rests a hand on his shoulder, moving it up to pinch at his ear.

“His are still growing, their sensitive, raw. What you speak of is wrong.”

“Well, thankfully it’s not up to you now is it?” The man says and the woman straightens. He remains tense, even as her hand slides off of his body.

“ _Thankfully_ , the Archon listens to me -

“Oh shut it, knife-ear, I delivered a solution to her problem.”

He flinches at the term. Mamae always said not to trust people who use it, but she also always said to not trust any human, even the ones like them. She also said not to trust some of the elves too, that the fancier they are, the worse they are. He doesn’t quite get it, but he doesn’t like anyone here so far. They talk about him not to him.

But he can’t speak. He speaks and he’ll die or worse.

He doesn’t know what is  _worse_  than dying, but he would hear the others talk about it late at night, while he was trying to fall asleep.

The woman takes a long breath, “Fine. I will ready him, get him presentable. Go to the Archon, tell her of your prowess.” She waves the man away, then turns back to him. When she touches his hair, she’s gentle, pulling so lightly at his curls.

“What a beautiful boy, what is your name, da’len?” She whispers. His eyes flicker up to hers and he tells her. She nods and tells him to get off the chair. She leads him into a different part of the estate, it’s not as lavish but it’s still nice. She puts him in the bath and bathes him, trying to be gentle but she isn’t his mamae.

 _Mamae_.

The clothes she dresses him in are the fanciest he has ever worn, but they’re itchy and heavy  and she clips on heavy jewelry to his ears. They pinch. She paints his face to make him even prettier, to make him  _acceptable_.

He doesn’t recognize himself in the mirror when he looks.

She takes him to another fancy room, this one though doesn’t overlook the grassy meadows, but a courtyard where a human boy sits, reading.

The room itself contains a large couch and several chairs but he is told to stand so he does. He tries not to tug at the stitches in his clothes, he knows that will get him beat. The robes sit awkwardly on him and he tries to make them not look ugly.

A door on the other side of the room opens and guards file into the room before a tall, elegantly dressed woman strides in. His eyes widen and he goes into an immediate bow. This is the  _Archon_ and Archons expect bows and what Mamae says is  _fealty._  He tries his best to show that, whatever it is.

The guards fan out over the room, covering the entrances. The Archon herself moves forward and takes a delicate seat on one of the chairs. Two elegantly dressed handmaidens come in and stand behind her, their faces veiled.

He puts his gaze back to the floor and tries to keep control of himself.  _Control yourself, if you don’t, they won’t control themselves, and when they don’t control themselves, we end up dead._

“He’s an  _elf_ ,” is the first thing the Archon says. Her voice is sneering in distaste and he wants so badly to just  _run_. Run back to the market and back to Master’s little outback house where he lived with Mamae and his sisters.

“Imagine him without the ears, my liege,” the man from before says, sounding sort of like the people at the market. Trying to sell something.

“Hm. Boy, lift your head, let me get a proper look at you,” the Archon instructs. The woman from before taps his shoulder and he slowly raises himself to his full height. He avoids her eyes, trying to hide, he wants to hide.

 _I want to get away_.

There’s another movement in his chest.

“Cover his ears, elf,” the Archon demands. Hands come over his ears and he wants to flinch, wants to move, to run.

“Ah, you are correct, Egnatius. The boy does look like my darling son, if it were not for those hideous ears.”

“Easily remedied, your supremacy. I can have the procedure arranged and he will be free of the things in a matter of days, shaped to look just like your son’s.” The man, apparently Egnatius, replies.

His ears? R-removed?

Horror and dread and  _fear_  so palpable and overwhelming surges in him and he can’t help but let out a whimper.

“They’re my ears,” he murmurs.

The room falls silent.

The Archon rises from her seat and places a decorated finger under his chin, tilting his head up so that his eyes must meet hers.

“Are you refusing to serve your Archon? Your benevolent and merciful ruler without whom you would just be a savage living in the woods?”

_Yes. Yes I am. Please let me go. I want to go._

But he doesn’t know what happens after death because saying ‘yes’ means death. He knows that. He knows. And he’s scared. It’s all scary and bad and why is this happening? He just wanted to get through market day, he just wanted to go back home with Mamae and his sisters. But now he’s here with the Archon and they’re talking about removing his ears and it’s  _too much._  

He sniffles and begins to cry, the carefully applied makeup beginning to run as he sobs, “I want my mamae.”

“My liege, I apologize, he is but a child, this is all very overwhelming for him,” the woman explains as he cries, falling to the ground, curling into himself. There’s too much. There are hands on him, eyes on him, bearing into him. Needles.

“What a pitiful creature. Child, listen to me, listen to your Archon and lift your spirits. I am a mother, to a beautiful son, and I love him very much, you see. But there are people who wish to hurt him, they wish to hurt this wonderful and innocent little boy who may just be Archon too one day. And I need someone who can protect him, someone who will look just like him, to help him. So it will confuse those who wish to hurt him. That is all you will be doing, child. You will be serving your Archon and all of the imperium.” A hand smoothes down over his curls and the Archon’s words do nothing to calm the edge to his nerves.

He wants to simultaneously run and sink so deep in the earth that no one can ever touch him again.

The movement in his chest spreads so much that he feels it in his fingers and in his legs. His head feels a little fuzzy and he blinks. They’re talking, he knows that but he can’t quite hear them.

It first feels like water dripping from off his hand like when he hold his arm under the spout back home. But it’s spilling off from all of him. Spilling out and up until a bright shiny thing separates him from the Archon and the woman.

He hears gasps and sudden exclamations, and it makes him curl tighter into himself, the bright shimmering barrier shining even brighter.

“He is a  _mage_ ,” the Archon marvels, but she doesn’t sound like someone who is about to hit him. She is fascinated and bemused but the anger that he has come associate with beatings isn’t there.

“What a marvelous opportunity. Hellia, take him for the night, see that he is rested for tomorrow’s procedure. Egnatius, you will walk me through it in as much detail as possible.”

His body shakes and the shimmering barrier breaks only when he hears the Archon leave. Still, he glances out from beneath his arm up at the woman, apparently named Hellia.

“Is she….” he asks softly.

Hessia nods and reaches for him before retracting her hand. Her eyes are sad and she nods, “She’s gone for now, yes. Would you like some food? Rest?”

He pauses before nodding. He pulls himself up off the ground and follows Hellia back to the room he was bathed and dressed in. Hellia doesn’t ask him to do anything but she leaves quickly, probably to go get food.

He looks around the room and wonders if he’s allowed to sit. The chairs aren’t as nice here, they’re less ornate, the stitching doesn’t have as many details. There are…four pillows on a sofa and one on a chair. They’re all different colors. One of them is shiny.

In his head, he destroys the shiny one first. He tears it apart, feathers exploding from the its cage of shiny silk. The pink one dies next. Then the blue one.

The door opens and he turns to see Hellia come back in, guiding in another elf who is pushing a cart…that is full of food. His mouth waters instantly and his fingers flex. He’s never seen so much food so close before.

He looks up at her, “Can…may I…is this for me?”

“For us to share, but please, eat as much as you want.”

Eat as much…as he wants?

He pulls the covers off the food and can’t help the resulting awed whimper. All of it is delicious though he doesn’t really know how to pace himself and ends up accidentally hurting his stomach. But he is  _full_  and warm without the aid of a blanket.

After eating, he is quick to fall asleep, belly bloated and warm, comforting him even when he doesn’t have his mamae.

Mamae…normally he’d eat with Mamae and his sisters, then they’d do night chores and then they’d go to bed. All curled up against each other in the bunk.

He dreams of his mamae and sisters, of a papae that he knew only briefly before he too was sold at market day. A figure flits through his dream, purple and bright and he thinks that it maybe looks a little like Mamae. It doesn’t come closer though, and when he wakes, he doesn’t really remember it so well. He wakes with tears in his eyes, asking for Mamae and his sisters and even his papae at one point.

Hellia doesn’t blink as she tells him to forget about them, that missing them will do him no favors. He needs to ‘move on’. She bathes him and dresses him in plain brown robes, still nicer than what he wore at Master’s.

She pulls his hair back into a tight bun, almost too tight and still some of his curls escape. They curl around the tips of his ears, tickling him. Hellia’s face turns sad as she watches him try to figure out a more comfortable arrangement around his ears.

His ears…

 _Removed_.

“I…like my ears,” he whispers and she sighs.

“They are very beautiful.”

“Can I go home?”

“No.”

She feeds him fruits and tells him stories about the old Gods. The dragons and about how they were great and big and  _terrifying_. He thinks he’d like to be like that, great and big and terrifying so that the Masters wouldn’t come after him when he stole his mamae and sisters. Maybe he could find Papae then too, as a great big terrifying monster.

Hellia leads him to a new part of the manor. It is deep, all blocked in by stone and very dark. She carries a torch to help them see but it doesn’t help that they’re going  _deep_  and under and it’s dark…very dark. He stops on the steps halfway down and shakes his head.

“I don’t like the dark or deep places,” he tries to protest. Hellia holds onto him though and makes him finish the descent.

Egnatius and the Archon and another person are waiting at the bottom for them. His ears itch. Egnatius smiles that kind of smile that sets his hair on edge. His ears twitch.

The thing in his chest moves again, and he thinks it’s the magic. He hopes it’s the magic.

The Archon smiles and clasps her hands together, “Good, you’re here! We can begin. I am so glad we found you, and your magic will be tended to, you will be one of the highest of the elves, you know. Serving your Archon and country, doesn’t that sound good?”

He should answer, she’s expecting an answer. The person next to her has blood on his gloves. He can smell the blood in the room, and the air feels…weird. He can’t find the words for it.

“I…”

“You want to serve your Archon, yes?”

He could say no. He could, like before.

But he nods and she smiles, gesturing for the unknown person next to her to step forward.

“Then let us begin.”

**

_I should have said no! They would have killed me!_

_Better than this!_

_I should have said no!_

There is so much blood. It’s everywhere. So much pain, it’s inescapable. He is still strapped to the table, immobilized by straps and magic, but it can’t stop the sobs that wrack his body. Why do they do this? What did he do? He doesn’t understand. It hurts, everything hurts even if it’s just his ears….

_My ears!_

He’s not bleeding anymore, they’ve…fixed it. But not really…

_My ears!_

He screams and his magic explodes out of his chest, untamed and raw, directionless. The Archon coos over him, praising him and all he wants to do is  _kill her. Destroy her_ like he does to the pillows in his mind. She deserves to die. He wants her to die.

He sees purple at the edge of his vision but when he blinks it’s gone.

**

He is given two days of rest, mostly so the healers have time to make sure his ‘ears’ look perfect. He wants to tell them they were perfect before they…they….

Every night, he cries. It hurts to lie down, he doesn’t understand his own body anymore. It feels  _wrong_. Over those two days, he discovers why the Archon demanded this and how he is expected to serve his country.

There have been assassination attempts on the Archon’s son, Lucanus. He’s nine and the Archon loves him a great deal. She loves him so much that she set out a search all over Tevinter to find someone with his likeness to protect him by confusing the assassins if they were to come….

He is to be a shield for the Archon’s son. His ears weren’t suitable in their blatant elfiness. They had to be…changed. He cries so much over those days that he thinks he’ll dry out.

 _You’ll be fine, da’len, everything will be fine._ But it isn’t and he doesn’t think it will be ever again. They took his ears, they’re setting him up to die. For the imperium, for the Archon.

“I hate being an elf,” he cries on the end of the second day. Hellia takes his hand and he snatches it away.

“Don’ttouchme!” He growls. Hellia reels back, looking sad and apologetic. She shouldn’t have let this happen. She wants to be sorry? She should have fought more. He doesn’t deserve this.

“I want my mamae,” he cries for the last time, curling up in a ball in the corner of the room, feathers from exploded pillows all around him.

**

He doesn’t think he looks like Lucanas. His nose is different and his eyes are darker, closer to black than Lucanas’s mid-shade brown. His hair is fluffier, his shoulders slump, and he doesn’t like to smile. Lucanas smiles a lot, he is demanding and loud.

“This is Lucanas, you are to become his double in every way,” Archon Jovian says. She is so excited and the happier she gets, the more he wants her dead. She shouldn’t be happy about destroying his ears, about ripping him from his mamae and sisters just so he can be a body in front of her precious child.

Lucanas is  _annoying_. He is supposed to observe Lucanas and feel like him, but how can he do that when they are so very different? But in time people start mistaking them. The cooks can’t tell the difference between him and Lucanas.

He tests this out one day and asks for chocolate.

“Anything for you, Lucanas,” they smile and fill his hands with beautiful candies. He eats them and gives none to Lucanas.

He is dressed in Lucanas’s robes, his hair is cut, his face is done in the same way and his hair is grown to cover the scars over his ears. He supposes that this way, they do resemble each other. But he still doesn’t smile as readily, still doesn’t run easily, and he hates it when the grownups try to touch him. Bath time is horrid. His body is exposed and eyes bear into him like needles.

Years pass like this, him as this…shield for the boy. He supposes he is lucky. He gets to go to Lucanas’s magical tutoring and in doing so, he gets tutored as well. He is very good with lightning and force magic, but his true talent is in blood magic. It’s forbidden, of course, but it’s also taught. For the technique. But he practices it. First on the rats that invade his bed, placed there by Lucanas. He tells the rats to go to Lucanas’s bed instead, who screams and wriggles away from them.

“Filthy diseased things!”

He tries not to laugh.

When he sleeps, it’s in shades of nostalgia and purple. He wonders what Mamae is up to, what’s become of his sisters. He hopes they still have their ears.

When he’s thirteen, he meets  _her_. Desire. She is beautiful, tall and soft and purple. Her horns are hidden in the great purple flame of her hair, and her nails are long but when she smiles, it reminds him of his mamae and he guesses that it’s part of her appeal. She is what he desires, after all, and he’s wanted his mamae.

“Hello,” she says.

He knows he shouldn’t talk to her, that she’s a demon. Even the magisters frown on demons, even though he knows the Archon consults them. She’s taken to summoning them to take out her political enemies.

Desire is kind, though. She doesn’t even ask to possess him or anything. But she listens to him, listens to what he wants.

“I don’t want to be Lucanas or his double,” he whispers late one night in her maternal embrace. She runs her hands through his hair.

“And who do you want to be?”

“Whatever I want to be, whatever I feel like,” he answers after a time. Desire coos and kisses the top of his head.

“That is a good thing to want, I want that for you too.”

One day when they are sixteen, Lucanas wears his hair back so he has to wear his back too. Lucanas eyes his ears and he glares back, daring the son of the Archon to say something. He doesn’t.

“I want my ears back,” he says that night to Desire. She nods and bristles.

“Of course, they were wrong to take them from you. It was  _barbaric_.” The purple flames shoot up around her and he grins.

“I want to destroy the palace!”

“Good!”

“I want them all dead!”

“Yes!”

“I want to be free!”

“I can help you!” She shouts at last and he stops. He should be afraid but he isn’t. She wants to help him, she wants to give him what he wants.

_Don’t you want to serve the Imperium?_

The answer was always no but he answered yes. The Archon never really cared or cares about what he wants. She wrenched him away from his mamae and his sisters. She took his ears. She turned him into a doll for her son, not caring what she was doing. He’s just an elf, just a slave, he doesn’t matter.

He had felt fear standing in that room, standing before the Archon, dressed in heavy robes that didn’t feel like his. He felt fear when they strapped him down.

But standing here? In front of Desire who has listened to nicely to him? Who has agreed with him so passionately? Who has held him like a mother would when his own mother was denied the ability?

He is not afraid.

“ _Yes_.” He says and this one he means. This one he  _wants_.

Desire smiles and she hugs him close, praising him, thanking him. And then she presses into him. It’s…an odd sensation. It isn’t quick but it doesn’t hurt necessarily. But he feels stretched, bloated, and he briefly worries she won’t fit, that there’s no room.

His eyes snap open and his body shakes, burns with the power now blazing through him. He has to stay quiet, Lucanas is sleeping in the bed next to his and he has to be quiet. His nails lengthen, darken to a distinctive purple, his back aches and he thinks that wings want spring forth from his back, as well as a tail? 

 _Our form can be however you want it, you need only will it,_ Desire says in his head, her voice is different but it’s still hers. He takes a deep breath and visualizes his body, without the purple nails and wings and tail. He thinks about his body and blinks, imagining beautiful sloped ears. Long, elegant, beautiful ears.

His body stops burning, settling into one form.

Shaking hands reach up to his ears, where he hopes -

They do not end at scar tissue.

A shocked whimper escapes him and tears spill from his eyes.

_My ears…._

_You get everything you want, as long as I am here. I am here in your need._

_Marassal._ He thinks, two elven words that he heard when he was little, mashed together to mean a new thing. His needs. His needs are what matter and they will always matter.

_Marassal._

He feels Desire flutter in approval. This is who they are, not what he was before, but  _Marassal_. New, about himself because it’s about time someone was.

His fingers trace the edges of his ears over and over again. He loves them, they’re so perfect and beautiful. Symbols of what he is despite what they’ve done. He’ll  _show_ them how wrong they’ve been. They will all die and regret the day they wrenched him away from his mamae and sisters.

_They will SUFFER._

But he is young still and the palace is full of those who could very well kill him, even when he is possessed. It’s such an odd idea - that he has this…other being inside of him. Desire warms inside of him and he sighs, surrendering into her embrace. She cares about him, about  _him_. Not about Lucanas or the Archon or what society thinks or anything.

She is here for him.

He lets his ears shift back into what they regrettably naturally are with a sigh.

Desire settles easily in him and they begin to plan. They will have to practice the subtly in killing. But who? Who dies first in this purge?

By morning, they decide on a randomly visiting Magister. He is old and ailing anyways, but he has power and doesn’t want to hand it over to his daughter. He is a mean old man who is cruel to his elves. The girl he likes to keep next to him is twelve and he notices scar tissue on her rounded ears.

She’s like him.

_First you need his blood._

This doesn’t prove to be too difficult as he accidentally cuts himself while eating. The knife is taken away to be cleaned but Marassal takes it and brings it to the closet of Lucanas’s room. Lucanas hates the secondary closet, he thinks it’s trite, which…makes no sense, it’s a closet, but it works in Marassal’s favor.

Desire tells him the words to murmur and the hand gestures to make. When he finishes the incantation, Desire is looser, less tied to him. She steps out of his body and walks through the halls unseen towards the old magister’s quarters who is berating the girl while pawing at her.

_I want him dead._

_As do I._

Desire moves forward and shoves an ethereal hand inside of the man’s chest. They will it so that something goes  _wrong_  then remove the hand. The magister sputters and gasps before falling to the floor.

The girl screams and Marassal grins.

One down.

Over the next month, the palace’s staff undergoes quite the onslaught of sudden death. There are suspicions, but no one suspects him. He practices on small things. The cook who likes to beat the elves in the kitchen. One of the overseers. A stable hand that once touched Marassal’s ears.

He works up to Egnatius who still works for the Archon, buying hapless elves at the market. That day dawns beautifully with rain and thunder. He’s had this blood sample for three days after he bit his lip while eating and wiped away the blood on a napkin. Marassal places it over the altar and takes out a knife. He murmurs the words he has come to delight in while pressing the tip of the knife into his thumb. The power flows out of him and bolsters the magic in the spell. His eyes close and Desire slips from him again, drawn to Egnatius.

Marassal has thought long and hard about this man’s death and he think that exsanguination through the jugular is an appropriate way to go. He is out by the stables, unloading the latest bought help. No more. Desire reaches in and makes the blood in Egnatius’s neck suddenly flow into his throat.

All at once Egnatius gasps and blood gushes in disgusting coughs. It spews from his lips as he screams, panicked, not knowing what’s going on.

_Die!_

It takes three minutes for him to bleed to death. Marassal grins as Desire floats back to their body and reassumes her residency. She is worn, though, spent from all the energy spent. As a result, he’s exhausted too. But he heals himself and stores everything so that it can’t be found.

He finds Lucanas and apologizes for being so long in the laboratory. Lucanas whines a bit about it but Marassal can’t help but rolls his eyes.

_I hate him._

_Perhaps we should kill him next_ , Desire suggests even in her weakened state. Her voice is different, darker and deeper. It’s…worrisome.

 _How do I keep us healthy?_ He replies instead.

 _Desires. Big and small,_ she answers and he resolves himself. He’ll pull back, feed her,  _them_ , keep them healthy because otherwise this is all for nothing.

As much as he doesn’t like it, the easiest source of satisfying desires comes from aiding Lucanas. But it is…not the best so to speak. The more he satisfies Lucanas’s desires, the more Marassal neglects his own and it  _burns_.

It doesn’t work.

So Marassal takes to doing other things. He brings sweets from the kitchen to the children in the slave quarters. They rush him and he smiles, handing out the treats, wishing that he could do more.

 _We will_.

He puts in an order for a book one of the apprentices has been wanting and presents it to her with a smile. She is kinder than most, a “charity case” the Archon calls her seeing as she wasn’t born to a high ranking family - not an Altus for a Laetus. She doesn’t reprimand the slaves and is even sweet to Marassal on the occasion she sees him.

She will live.

A month passes and there are no mysterious deaths. The Archon is still reeling from the death of her disgusting slave procurer and lover. But by the end of that month, Marassal has glutted himself on the desires of the lowly in the house.

His next prey is someone he has long debated with himself on but at the end of the day…she didn’t do anything. She didn’t advocate for him. She sat in her cushy room and in her nice robes, serving up children to the Archon for her to use as she saw fit.

He sits in his closet and moves his clawed hand over a needle that pricked Hellia. His murmurs grow into a chant and Desire leaves him, bright and burning. He wants to conserve energy on this, but he needs to know that the  _can_ do this.

Thirty minutes later, Marassal’s eyes snap open and he grins.

A fall down the stairs. Nothing suspicious, just…unfortunate. He hears the shouts in the halls, all exclaiming  _Poor Hellia_  but he also feels a sudden rush of  _power_.

It seems that a lot of the household wanted her dead.

He retracts his claws and pulls his ears back in. It’s a sad thing, to pull himself back into this body the Archon has fashioned for him. The scars on his ears itch and there is a dull throb in the back of his head.

_Don’t leave the closet._

_Why?_

_Pride._

Marassal blinks. Pride? As in…a demon? Another one?

_Yes, they want us to come out._

_Why?_

_…They’re…proud._

He doesn’t want to leave the closet. And he doesn’t think he can fight a pride demon. Aren’t those more powerful than Desire? As a rule?

 _We must be clever._ Clever, right, the brutes in stories are often taken down by the smaller, more clever of the bunch. He is small and he is young but he can do this.

He opens the closet door to see the Archon sitting on his bed. Except that it isn’t the Archon. He sees her two grey eyes but behind that are the shadows of seven green ones. Shadows of spikes creep up her arms and when she opens her mouth to speak, her teeth are sharp and her tongue is large and flat, almost like it is too big for her mouth.

“I was wondering who was behind all of the death, but now I see. The little boy I so graciously took in, now…what? Is mad that he is second to my son?”

Marassal takes a deep breath and bows his head, “I take the lives of those who defied me.” Appeal to Pride, make his case as sympathetic as possible.

Pride, the Archon, smiles and rises from the bed, “And what it is that you desire?”

 _Freedom_  is ready to spill from his lips and he thinks that perhaps the older abomination is trying to pull it from him. But Desire holds fast, curling around him in a comforting purple haze. Marassal takes a deep breath, centering himself. His eyes flash purple with intent and resistance.

“ _Power_ ,” he growls to Pride’s immense satisfaction. They slink closer and drag a long, black claw down his face.

“I can give that to you, darling, I can give you so much power. Teach you what you need to know. Teach you  _everything_  and together we will be unstoppable.”

Marassal grins at the offer. Pride…both a strength and downfall.

He bows his head, “I want that more than anything.”

“ _Good_.”

**

Over the course of the next five years, Marassal bides his time. The Archon, or rather  _Aquila_ , teaches him what she knows. And she knows much. He feeds on the desires of those around him and continues to try an make life better for the slaves. He has the ear of the Archon and uses that power as much as he dares.

_Children under the age of fifteen cannot be sold. It creates weakness._

_Criminalize mistreatment of slaves._

_Limit the number of slaves a magister can have._

_Lower the limit._

He tries and tries and  _tries_. And he knows it’s not nearly enough, and he wants to do  _more_. But then Lucanas finds a wife. A cunning woman, much more cunning than the stupid Lucanas whom Aquila has essentially abandoned to her useless husband. But Lucanas’s wife is the youngest of seven. She is spoiled and smart and exceptionally powerful.

Aquila believes her to be the next Archon and the majority of the Magisterium agrees. Iunia knows this as well and all it does is fuel her ambition.

Lucanas’s wedding is a lavish affair and as always, Marassal is there, working as a double to the man that he does not truly resemble that much anymore. But Lucanas and Aquila want him there, they both know of his power and a wedding is the perfect place for an assassin.

Iunia is a beautiful bride, done up in the brightest, most expensive purple garment she could have made. She shimmers with gold dust, as if she bathed in it…which is most likely what she did.

There is a yearlong honeymoon and it allows Aquila and Marassal to step up his training, to get him to where she is or just slightly below. She whispers that she either wants Iunia as Archon or….Marassal himself. And for the briefest moment, Marassal wants that too. He wants to be Archon. He could dissolve the Magisterium, could make himself a dictator to completely revolutionize the country. He could free the slaves and slaughter the magisters, then dethrone himself and allow the people to rebuild how they saw fit.

But no. That…it wouldn’t work. The Magisterium won’t dissolve just because he demands it. The Archon’s power, contrary to belief, is not absolute. It rests within the Magisterium as a whole. He would only be signing himself into a shinier, gilded cage that would make him like…Hellia.

For the first time, Marassal feels a twinge of regret at killing her. She wanted to help one point, potentially and it just…it could not work. The system in place is so rigged against them, so polluted and corrupted.

He sticks to his original plan and leans as much as he can from Aquila and Pride. Pride who enjoys raking through power through Desire to remind her that they are in charge. Pride who is certifiably a  _dick_.

When Lucanas and Iunia return to the palace, Marassal is brimming with power and skills. Desire is fed and he is as close as he is ever going to be to being able to finally exact his revenge. A revenge twelve years in the making.

It is late in the evening when Marassal rises from his table. He stretches his back and decides to retire for the night. It has only been a week since Lucanas and Iunia returned but already he feels the slight dissatisfaction rolling through the palace, all radiating from Iunia. He can’t pinpoint why she’s unhappy with him, and frankly Marassal doesn’t care.

Or at least he didn’t.

He no longer shares a room with Lucanas, a blessed boon that he has reveled in for well over a year now. But his room is not empty when he opens the door. The candles are lit and there is a strong presence by his bed.

No. No.  _No._

 _She cannot do anything we do not want_ , Desire assures him, trying to soothe his now racing heartbeat.

He could leave. He could walk right out of this room, spend the night in the library. Right, yes, he’ll do that, he doesn’t want -

“There you are,” Iunia purrs from the bed. He swallows.

“Lucanas is in bed, you should go to him,” Marassal says, avoiding looking at her. He can feel her desire, desire for  _him_.

“I don’t want him,” she says, the bed creaking as she rises.

“I-I need to go -

“You cannot deny me, Marassal. You cannot deny my desire for you.”

He stills just as he is about to leave the room. She…she knows. Fear, not desire, coils in him. Only Aquila should know, so how could Iunia….

“It wasn’t that difficult to figure out, you are incredibly powerful and eerie and…delectable.” He can feel her eyes on him, bearing into his skin like needles. If she can figure it out…

_Aquila told her._

_How do you know?_

_I can see it in her mind. Aquila told her, she is moving against us._

It’s time then. It wasn’t when he had planned or wanted but if there is a need to do this now, then it will happen now.

“I suppose information is easy to come by when you are favored by the Archon,” he tries and she chuckles.

“You would know, you’ve become her little pet.”

“And what? You wish to replace her as my mistress?” He jokes but he feels the air spike with desire. Oh.

“Precisely. You were selected because you look like Lucanas but I can see now that you are far more handsome, far more capable, and  _powerful_. You do what needs to be done and you are exactly what this country needs, what I want most in this life.”

Her desire pulls at him but it is not his. Desire curls within him and she gently reminds him of his own desires and they are  _not_ what Iunia desires.

His nails lengthen and darken, his eyes shift to purple, lengthen to their original shape. Iunia gasps and flinches away from him as his grin turns cruel and he advances towards her.

“Did the Archon care to inform you that you are lusting after an  _elf_ , hmm? That you desire a  _slave_ who has his ears shorn and his face magically altered to look like that of her son’s over the years?  _Is this your desire, Iunia? Then so be it!”_

Wings spring from his back, great bat-like appendages that lurch forward with razor sharp claws. He slits her throat and she collapses to the ground, sputtering in disbelief.

_She poisoned Lucanas._

_Fine, one less we have to kill ourselves._

He folds his wings close to his back and dons a large cloak, shifting back and forth costs more energy than to simply maintain this shape after all. He opens a small chest full of potions and quickly downs  _three_ lyrium vials. His power blooms in a great display that is almost drugging in effect. But he can take it, he has to.

The hallway is full of guards that he simply walks past. It’s not their fault, he doesn’t want them specifically dead, he just wants  _her_  now. Aquila is the last piece, and then he will be  _free_.

Her wing of the palace is abandoned, which means she is practicing her most dangerous of magic. She is in the Fade, most likely, trying to assassinate her enemies in their dreams, trying so desperately to be the somniari that she is not but he  _is._  It’s why he can do what he can do. Entering the Fade at will, killing those in the physical world by influencing them in the Fade.

Aquila has tried so hard to compensate for her rather mundane magical abilities - going so far as to become possessed by a power hungry and indiscriminate Pride demon. He seals the entrance to the wing and makes his way to her lair. It is a moderately sized room at the far end of the wing, overlooking the fountain in the south-end courtyard.

Marassal waves a hand, blowing the door to the room in and into the large, looming figure in the center. She whips around, growling at the sudden intrusion. Seven green eyes blink at him until they begin to glow brightly.

“So you’ve finally come to slay me,” Pride says, still utterly confident in their prowess.

“Yes.”

“You will gain no power, Desire, by slaying me,” they bait but it just makes Marassal chuckle darkly. He shucks off his cloak, flexing his large wings.

“Oh but you see, Pride, I lied to you. I never wanted power from you. I wanted  _freedom_  from you.”

Pride roars in fury, lunging forward as their body shifts into a larger, spikier version of themselves. Marassal dodges the blow easily and dances around to Pride’s back. Lightning leaps from his hands and sinks into Pride, but it has almost no effect. If anything, the lightning simply makes them laugh before turning and swiping again at him.

He jumps back, launching a fireball in the process. Pride waves a hand and dispels the flames easily. They’re strong, gigantic, and under any circumstance they would win because that’s how life is. The big guy wins, the strong one, the one who can hold you down and cut away pieces of you.

But he is strong and clever and he will not lose.

He launches himself back with his wings and attacks their mana. He pulls out a dagger and slices his hand open to siphon their power into himself. It is a rush unlike he has ever known and he uses it to immediately blast them with sheer spiritual power.

Pride groans under the onslaught. But when the spell ends, they stand again and strike. This time they make contact and send him flying out through the windows. Glass digs into his back and wings, cutting him off from flying.  _No!_

Pride tsks, “Oh Desire, you never stood a chance.”

Blood drips from his wounds, but Pride is foolish. He will not stop, he will never stop. This is reason to be and he he will always fight. It is his nature.

“Stupid Pride, I am  _relentless_ ,” he growls and pulls himself back up, allowing Desire to ride higher. His body shifts and grows, his bones lengthening, his skin rippling as the change tears through him. His ears shift and break and blood bubbles up, flowing fresh down his neck. The transformation only takes a few seconds but it is enough time to enrage Pride to a breaking point.

They charged him but he does not dodge it this time. Instead, Marassal leaps up and sinks his claws, hands and wings, into Pride’s arm. Pride howls in pain as Marassal climbs up their arms, tearing gigantic wounds into the best. Blood, spill as much blood as possible.

Pride flails and reaches for Marassal, but he just jumps to the other arm. His claws dig in, rending spiked flesh from blood and bone, soaking himself with blood in the process. But he revels in it and casts spells that bury themselves deep into Pride’s form. He can barely feel Aquila and he suspects she’s been lost to Pride, terrified of the beast she’s created in Marassal.

He has the bitch on the run, but doesn’t she understand that she can’t get off that easily?

Marassal darts up to the abomination’s head and shoulders. He drives his wings into their head and begins to chant. Eyes roll back in his head as he drags Aquila to the forefront of Pride. Their body shudders, convulsing under the onslaught. Marassal has played them, they know this now and there is  _nothing_ they can do about it.

Their screams suddenly shift into Aquila’s sobs, begging for mercy.

“ _Did you grant mercy to the nine year old boy whose ears you cut off? Did you grant mercy to your slaves who begged for their lives, their families, their rights? Have you ever granted a mercy that was not for yourself? You selfish, evil bitch, I will destroy your soul!”_ He screeches, his four top limbs digging into her flesh, ripping it to shreds. He pays special attention to the sides of her enormous head, gouging the place where her ears once were. Claws burrow into her skull and beat her brainless, pulling out grey matter.

The body falls and Pride flits away as quickly as they can even as Desire’s power fills the room.

The ultimate desire fulfilled and oh it is a  _high_ he has never known! Blood pounds in his ears but only when the former archon is lying dead on the ground does he finally hear it -

The warning bells, signaling that the palace is under attack.

They will come for him, all of them and they will all be expected to give their lives because of this.

A figure appears in the doorway to the office, a familiar figure….

The apprentice. The charity case. Septima. Graduated from her work as an apprentice, the Archon kept her on as her personal healer. His tattered wings flex nervously as she steps into the room.

“They’ll kill you, you know.”

“I will leave when I am able.” When he can fly which…won’t be any time soon. She looks to his wings and nods.

“You helped me all these years, you never treated me like the charity case I was. I…let me return the favor. Let me heal you,” she offers and he bristles. She could be lying. It would be good for her to lie, to capture him or kill him, to avenge the beloved Archon.

But something in him doesn’t think she is lying.

Marassal inclines his head and climbs off of the corpse. He spreads his wings out for her to heal. Warm magic drifts from her fingers and nestles itself into his wings, the holes slowly closing as she murmurs her spells.

Her hands drift over his body and then up to his ears -

He grasps her hand reflexively.

“Your ears -

“I am aware.”

“I can fix it.”

“No, you really can’t,” he says dryly but she just narrows her eyes and inhales. When she exhales he sees it, the glow under her skin, the flecks of silver in her eyes and the warmth to her entire being.

“I am Kindness, Desire, and I can help,” she whispers. He lets her wrist go and her hands travel to his ears, to the blood beginning to dry there. Light bursts from her fingers and his ears burn for just a second before she takes her hands away. His form then shifts on its own, back to his true elven form, plus the wings.

“There you are, Marassal. Now go, be free of this place.” Her voice echoes with all the force Kindness to muster which…is not much compared to what Marassal is used to, and it reads more of a request than anything. He smiles and inclines his head.

“Goodbye, Septima and Kindness, I wish you well.”

“As you, Marassal and Desire.”

He turns from her and runs out through the window, flying into the night, finally free.

 

~

 

Marassal is  _not_  a baby snatcher. On the contrary, he is a baby  _liberator_.

Look, when he met that wonderful young abom with the absolutely delightful passenger of a spirit, Des, he sort of…kept up with them. Serahlin made that pretty easy considering. It only got a little tricky when the whole cycle came to an end. But he did his best to keep up with them and their family. After a while, he noticed some patterns. 

Adannar, Serahlin’s husband, was always a friend. Ana was always a close friend who could turn into a daughter - Selene, once the mother friend literally becoming the  _mother friend_. 

And Dirthamen. Sweet, odd, Dirthamen always her love. Her  _true_ love. Such a rare thing, that. True love. It is said that it could cure everything, at least according to the fairy tales. 

It was supposedly rare and yet he saw it practically swarm all over the little clan that Selene somehow kept creating for herself. All that love, all of that  _good_. 

And then Uthvir goes and  _dies_  and that just fucks everything up for awhile. He loses track of Selene and Felasel, Melarue goes so far underground that he thinks they may have reached the fifth dimension or something.

Anyways. He is not a baby snatcher. He isn’t even really that good with kids. they have grabby little hands and weird tastes - but…they have easy desires. Feed them, clothe them, change then (GROSS), occasionally bounce them on a knee or something…right? Right. 

So Marassal isn’t the best candidate for a parent, but he  _knows_  that Dirthamen’s family is really no place for a good soul like his. And after drowning in the last cycle, Marassal figures that he could use a good life this time around.

This thinking leads him down a rabbit hole of thinking and research and lots of book reading. Lots of television watching about babies. Babies, babies, babies, and then children, and teenagers. And how to give your kid the  _talk_  without scarring them for life. Out of everything, Marassal thinks he’s got that pretty much covered. It’s everything else he’s worried about. 

How is he supposed to teach self-control? He hates self-control. Self-control is  _boring_. But it’s important apparently for little ones.

He doesn’t think he’s completely prepared when he’s walking down the street and sees her. A very pregnant Mythal and her handsome husband. He can feel the twins even across the street. He knows those souls. Falon’din and Dirthamen. 

The plan he orchestrates is dangerous and rife with the potential for failure. But enacts he does. He plants the idea right then and there in Mythal’s mind that one of the babies is underdeveloped, sick. And he hounds them after that. He alters ultrasounds, influences everyone who touches their case until it is “confirmed” that twin B is sickly, underdeveloped and will most likely die upon delivery. A harsh thing for Mythal, but really, the woman is awful and this is in the best interest of her unborn baby. 

When she does go into labor, it gets a little difficult to hide the fact that her baby is perfectly healthy. He has to expend A LOT of energy to keep that rouse up. But by the end of it, Dirthamen Evanuris is declared dead after an hour of life. 

And that is when Marassal scoops the little baby up and walks out with his new son. He’s a cute baby, Marassal thinks. Chubby cheeks and wispy dark hair. Not at all fussy, likes to stare at things and drool.

Marassal thinks this is a fantastic thing. He’s a  _dad_  now. And he wants to be a good dad, so he starts working on being a good dad, which as it turns out is pretty difficult as a single parent. Really, how can one little baby need  _so much_. Oh but his son needs so many things! And babies feel fulfillment of their wants and desires very differently from adults, VERY DIFFERENT. 

But Marassal tries and he buys just about everything little Dirthamen even shows a minor interest in. Soon, Marassal’s house is  _filled_  with toys, puzzles, and all sorts of things his little son likes. The boy is spoiled rotten and really, Marassal wouldn’t have it any other way. His son is good, he shows it time and time again when he uses his manners, or doesn’t shove the kid at school who tripped him. He is a good soul and good souls deserve good things. Like ice cream. And toys. And  _books_. 

Dirthamen calls him “papae” and it makes Marassal’s old abom heart flutter. Oh, so precious. He showers his son in affection and finds himself to be exceptionally protective. He practically totals a car when it backs up and the driver doesn’t quite see him and Dirthamen walking across the parking lot to the movie theatre. His magic  _flares_  in aggressive energy before coalescing into a protective shroud on Dirthamen. 

Being a father is exhausting, but Dirthamen is a good son. And it is a good thing Marassal is doing, a good thing to keep him away from his abusive brother and family. And one day, when Dirthamen is old enough, he will take them on a vacation that is not so coincidentally close to the little ping in the map Marassal has for Selene. 

A perfect plan, Marassal thinks, tucking his son into bed one night. Perfect, perfect. 

 

~

 

“Alright, Dirthamen, we have an important decision to make,” Marassal says.

Dirthamen blows a spit bubble from his spot in the car seat.

“Excellent, I knew you’d understand. Now,” he pulls out three pictures from the file he’s been collecting over the last few months.

“House number one, the Orlesian colonial. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, big backyard, original floors and plaster detail work. Completely restored. What do you think?” He holds the picture up. Dirthamen makes a popping noise with his lips and Marassal nods.

“I totally agree, no basement and no designated play area for you, deal breaker.” He set the picture down and pulls up the second picture.

“House number two, the Fereldan tudor. I really like this one, it’s got that big bonus room at the top, three bedrooms again, a screened in porch, three bathrooms this time, one on each level!”

Dirthamen shakes his fist and gets distracted by a spot on his carrier.

“Hmm, the kitchen does need updating and an open concept is just not happening in that house. Plus the basement isn’t even finished and the yard is on this horrible slope. Next.”

He shuffles the pictures again and pulls out the third, “House number three. Two bedrooms this time, so it’s a little smaller, but completely open concept, finished basement, a nice sized yard, fenced. Two bathrooms…oh but it’s a new build. Hmm. We need something with some character to it, don’t we? Yeaah. House number four is a mansion built by a Marcher who wanted to be closer to his daughter after she married Ferelden nobility. The historical preservation societies keep it regulated to the max, so really, renovation and customization isn’t going to happen.”

Dirthamen burbles and Marassal sighs.

“It is too big, isn’t it? And we want something we customize to our needs over time. Alright, house number five, now I really like this one. It’s a mid-century modern, so you know, I’m older than it, but it is just so architecturally interesting and oh! There is a water feature in the backyard, a very soothing little waterfall. Four bedrooms, all on the same level, three bathrooms including the master bathroom. You will have your own bathroom! And a little free room since it’s a Jack and Jill set up. It’s a good neighborhood, with good schools, all mage friendly. The basement needs some more finishing, I think, but it is livable right now. There’s a courtyard and a large fenced in backyard.”

Dirthamen giggles and kicks and Marassal smiles in response, “Mid-century modern it is! Now, what color do you want your bedroom to be?”

**

Marassal loves TV, he does, but he hates commercials. One of the many banes of his existence, commercials are. But alas it is something he must deal with if he wants to watch his shows debut live.

He is watching the latest of  Say Yes to the Dress when a most decidedly offensive commercial comes on air. It’s this woman talking about how she thinks that her birth mother is the only one who will understand her and that she’s adopted and never felt wanted. Marassal blinks and then narrows his eyes.

It’s just marketing, Desire says but Marassal doesn’t care. Is this how Dirthamen is going to feel? Is he going to feel some sort of automatic pull towards investigating his biologically family just because of blood? Marassal supposes he can’t really blame him if he does, he never got over his own bio family, though those were considerably different circumstances.

Dirthamen sits on the plush rug in their great room, making what looks to be a booming metropolis with his blocks.

Marassal climbs down to the floor and asks Dirthamen for a hug.

“Okay,” he says and crawls into Marassal’s lap. Marassal coos and holds Dirthamen close, snuggling his nose into Dirthamen’s hair.

He supposes that it doesn’t really matter, in the end. He loves Dirthamen and he is going to raise this boy with that love and the resulting support. And if Dirthamen finds any of it lacking…he gets what we wants. His desires are valid and should be listened to.

Dirthamen is his son, always will be at the end of the day. But for now he can hold Dirthamen close and revel in the fact that he is all that Dirthamen knows right now. That he doesn’t see any oddities in how he doesn’t really look like his father. So in the meantime, Marassal plans to hold his son and to love and cherish him as he deserves.

Dirthamen wriggles and pulls back a little bit, wanting to get back to his blocks.

“Play wit’ me?” He asks and how can Marassal say no to that?

“Of course, sweetheart.”

**

“I’ll catch you! I promise!” Marassal calls from inside the pool that was completed at the beginning of summer. Dirthamen shuffles to the edge of the pool and looks at it with great suspicion.

“Are you sure?” The four-year-old asks. Marassal nods.

“Yes! I am a very good Dirthamen catcher!”

Dirthamen doesn’t look convinced but he takes a deep breath and wiggles, his water wings swishing with him. But then he takes a deep breath and looks back at Marassal with his serious face.

“Okay!” He backs up a bit and does a little run before jumping off the edge.

Desire catches the moment like a snapshot for Marassal’s memory, Dirthamen flying in the air, scared but determined and flying before actually knowing how to fly.

He jumps right into Marassal’s arms, warm and safe and comforting.

“Yaay! You did it! Oh you were spectacular! I am so proud of you!” Marassal coos and praises while Dirthamen giggles with the adrenaline rushing through his little body.

**

The doorbell rings  just as Marassal is walking by, which means something he thinks. He opens it up to find a little girl with a wagon full of brightly colored boxes.

“Hello,” he says.

“Good afternoon, good ser! My name is Velari and I’m with the Girl Scouts and I was wondering if you’d like to buy some cookies? We’re a very good organization that promotes leadership skills and good citizenship in young girls all over Thedas!” Her two front teeth are missing and her glasses are bright purple cat-eyes that make his heart soar.

“Just one moment!” He says and runs inside, grabbing his wallet and rushing back out.

He rifles through the wallet and pulls out a wad of cash, counting it quickly in his head, “How much will…three hundred twenty six and thirty two cents buy me?” Her eyes go wide at seeing that much cash and she stutters.

“Uh I have twenty boxes and sixteen of them are three-fifty but the other four are six dollars.”

Marassal quickly does the math in his head, “That’s only ninety-four dollars! Uh, here, have…two hundred, buy yourself something nice. Can I have all the cookies? Or do you need to sell them to different houses?”

“I-I don’t think there’s a rule about that.”

“Excellent! I’ll take the lot!” Marassal waves his hand and floats the boxes into the house much to Velari’s amazement.

“Woow!”

“Have you never seen a mage, da’len? We’re quite the treat, you know.” He winks at her and floats all the boxes into the house.

“Thank you, ser!” Velari says, holding her two hundred dollars in hand.

“Of course, darling! Now go! Have fun, it’s a lovely day, tell your mamae I say hello and thank you.” He waves goodbye and closes the door.

“Dirthamen!” He calls, “we have cookies!”

 

~

 

Dirthamen has yet to establish a regular sleeping cycle.

Which has resulted in disrupting Marassal’s sleep to a frustrating point. Sure, he doesn’t need as much sleep as non-aboms, but that doesn’t mean he needs  _none_. And Dirthamen apparently likes to sleep for two hour intervals before waking and demanding Marassal’s attention. A diaper change, or feeding, or cuddling (which Marassal  _never_  turns down).

After weeks of this situation, it becomes untenable so Marassal seeks out the aid of the internet. And wow, there is  _so much_  almost too much information on babies and sleeping cycles. Mommy blogs and vlogs are a thing as are research articles and opinion pieces and this researcher disagrees with this one – how does  _anyone_  sort through all this? How can there be so many disagreements in the parenting department?

And then he comes across  _it_.

The apparently “best” way to get your baby on a regular sleeping cycle.

The “cry themselves to sleep” method.

Marassal reads a lengthy blog post on it and some of the research, claiming that letting the baby cry themselves to sleep allows them to learn to self soothe or some other shit. Desire hisses loudly and their nails lengthen into claws.

How on  _earth_  can he ignore his baby when he is crying? That is just…that is simply not  _possible_ for them.

If his baby is crying, it means that his baby needs him for some reason. And while it is inconvenient and difficult – Dirthamen is a baby, small and vulnerable, not in any sort of control of himself. Of course he has moods and needs a lot of help and comfort,  _of course_.

He pushes himself away from his desk and heads into the next room where Dirthamen is napping. Or was napping. Instead the babe is awake and just…resting in his crib, looking up at his mobile, little legs kicking as the mobile turns. Marassal smiles and chuckles, drawing Dirthamen’s gaze.

And he  _smiles._  Desire coos and swells to the surface, their aura wavering brightly, angling towards Dirthamen. Marassal moves to the crib and gently lifts his son out and into his arms.

“Hello, hello, oooh, hello!”

 _I love him._ There is surprise in Desire’s voice, which…isn’t too unsurprising. Taking Dirthamen had been more of a Marassal decision, done out of distant fondness for Selene and his own loneliness.

He kisses Dirthamen’s cheek, cuddling him close.

“Darling little one, if you need me, I am always here. Yes! Always here, oooh.” Fatherhood, Marassal decides, is more exhausting and stressful than he predicted, but infinitely more rewarding and wonderful.

~

“Come on, Dirthamen! You can do it! Walk to Papa! Waaaalk to Papa!”

Marassal is prepared for this moment, he has his video camera and Dirthamen’s favorite animal cookies ready to go. He is  _ready_.

His son has other ideas. Like butt scooching over to his blocks. Marassal sighs and puts the camera away. Another day then.

~

Marassal is checking in with an associate on his computer while Dirthamen is watching television when it happens. He just happens to look up from the screen at precisely the right time to see it. Dirthamen rises up from his position at his blocks and  _turns_  on his feet and takes a step –

Oh! It’s happening! It’s happening it’s happening it’s happening!

 _Get the camera! Get it right now!_ Desire shouts and he scrambles to get the camera together in time to see –

“I got it I –

Dirthamen plops back down on his butt as soon as he realizes the commotion going on, two steps away from the blocks.

“Ahh!” Marassal grouses in playful anger. Though as playful as he intended it, Dirthamen’s face falls and he sniffles pitifully.

“Oh no, no, baby, it’s okay. I’m not upset! You did so well, so very well! I’m so proud of you, c’mere,” he softens his voice as he moves to sit next to Dirthamen, gently guiding him into his lap. After a minute of making sure everyone is good and happy, Marassal stands up, only to hunch over and take Dirthamen’s hands.

“Alright, Dirthamen, I’m going to help you now, okay?”

“’Ay!”

Marassal shuffles back, increasing the distance between him and Dirthamen, encouraging the boy to take a step. And he does! Each step gets words of encouragement, and when he plops back to the floor after three more steps, Marassal lets him stay down and return to his blocks.

 

~

 

“I write you a story!” Dirthamen declares, waving around three pieces of paper for Marassal.

“You did? Oh how wonderful! Let’s see!” Marassal sets to reading the irregular, large handwriting. It’s impressive at all that a five-year-old can write this well at all, let alone write a  _story._  His son is so talented!

“’Once upon a time there was a mushroom. The mushroom was dark. He had a toadstool friend. She was red. She had spots. She looked like Minnie Mouse. The mushroom and toadstool liked to dance. They danced with two birds. The birds were friends. The mushroom jumped high. He wanted to fly. But he can’t. He is a mushroom. The end.’” Marassal stares at the papers for a moment before looking back to his son who is sitting at his little play table.

“This is amazing, Dirthamen! You are so creative!”

He is getting this framed, it can go next to the masterpiece he drew last week of his school. He added a tentacle monster in the parking lot, which Marassal thinks is brilliant commentary on how the school system tends to suck all the creativity out of its students in favor of standardization.

Dirthamen smiles and reaches for the papers again, “I wanna draw the mushroom.”

“Does the mushroom have a name?”

“A…a…gar-i-cus Bis…por…us,” he says, making Marassal raise his eyebrows. Desire shifts in him, perking her metaphorical head up.

_That is the scientific name for the common mushroom._

_Why do you know that?_

_I actually am able to pay attention to the picture books our son reads._

_You got him a picture book on mushrooms last time I let you drive?_

_He was very excited about it._

“That is a very nice name.”

“His friend’s name is Minnie because she looks like Minnie Mouse.”

_The scientific name is Amanita muscaria. It associates with deciduous and coniferous trees._

_You are really enjoying this._

_His face was_ glorious  _while reading that book._

Marassal smiles and smooths Dirthamen’s hair away from his face, smiling fondly. This is another for the great horde of everything this boy has created in this life time. And it’s moments like these, where he sees Dirthamen so happy, a little odd but also strangely cute, where he wonders what he would be like with his biological family. An Evanuris instead of a Sataris. He thinks about what his life was like before, with his brother and sister, with his mother and father. All he can picture is a quieter boy, a nervous boy that hides his pictures of large tentacle monsters sitting in parking lots and stories about mushrooms who befriend birds and can’t fly.

He takes a seat at the small play table and takes a piece of paper from the stack at the other end. He picks up the purple crayon.

“Whatcha drawin’?”

“A spirit.”

“What kind?”

“Desire.”

“Wha’s desire?”

“To desire something is to want it a lot. Like remember when you really wanted that cookie at Davie’s party over the weekend? You desired it.”

“Oh, okay. I’m gonna draw a spirit too!” He declares, grabbing another piece of paper.

“And what kind of spirit are you going to draw?” Marassal asks. Dirthamen thinks for a moment before grabbing the blue crayon.

“Cookie spirit!”

“You…mean like the Cookie Monster?”

“Spirit!” Dirthamen affirms, pushing the crayon into the paper to get that pure blue color. Marassal chuckles and nods.

“That sounds good to me.”

 

~

 

Dirthamen’s Papae is the best Papae in the whole world.

He knows it, but he also knows that everyone is allowed to think  _theirs_  is the best Papae in the whole world. And some of his classmates have a point to be made. Sedla’s Papae owns a candy store, and Nerrus’ Papae is a race car driver, and Edenu’s Papae can turn into a giant spider and lets them ride around on his back.

But Dirthamen’s Papae is still the best Papae. He gives the best hugs and he tells the best stories, and he always looks at Dirthamen’s pictures, and listens to his stories, and when Dirthamen’s first teacher told him he was making up words and that he needed to write with his right hand instead of his left, his Papae came to the school and called her the em-body-gent of everything wrong with schools. And then he got Dirthamen put into his new class, with Miss Bradin, who is very nice.

Whenever Dirthamen has a problem, his Papae is always there to help him. So when Miss Bradin has everyone draw their family during Art Time, Dirthamen is more than happy to. He draws his Papae, and himself. And he draws their house, and then he draws some birds, because he likes birds. He draws some giant mushrooms instead of trees, and his mushroom book, and a plane flying in the background.

It’s a good drawing. Miss Bradin says she likes his colours, and when he takes it home he shows it to Papae, and Papae says it’s  _marvelous_  and puts it up on the fridge. They have to take down Dirthamen’s picture of a nice cat he saw to do it, but that’s okay, because then his Papae just puts the cat picture in his big folder.

The next day for Art Time, though, Miss Bradin tells everyone that they’re going to draw what they think their life will be like when they’re all grown up. They don’t have to guess right, Miss Bradin tells them. It’s just an imagination exercise, and they’re supposed to try and think of something neat, and hopeful, and if they want to they can draw themselves doing fun jobs, like being doctors or astronauts or home-makers. Or they could be living some place fun, or they could even have children of their own.

Dirthamen likes this idea.

He draws his Papae, again, and himself, except he makes himself tall. Just like Papae. And he puts them on the moon, because he likes the moon. They have a house and a swimming pool with a pet giant octopus in it, and moon birds, and then Dirthamen has to think some more. What kind of a job will he have in the future?

Maybe he’ll be a superhero. Even though they’re mostly made-up, he still thinks that would be the most fun, and Miss Bradin said they didn’t have to worry if it was right or not. He puts a cape and a mask on himself, and then he decides he needs a sidekick. Maybe a spirit? What kind of spirits would live on the moon?

Probably a Moon Spirit! Dirthamen remembers, he saw a girl like that on one of his cartoons. He draws her as best he can, with her pale hair and her fancy dress. And then he gives her a cape and a mask, too, and after some more thought he adds in a rocket ship, and a giant telescope, except by then he’s almost out of room so the telescope ends up scrunched in the corner. He’s very proud of the end result, though.

Miss Bradin looks at everyone’s drawings before they go home for the day.

“It’s very creative, Dirthamen!” she commends. “Is that the moon?”

He nods, pleased.

“That’s me,” he specifies, because him being tall is a pretty big difference. “An’ that’s Papae, an’ our occopus, for guarding stuff, an’ those are moon birds…”

Miss Bradin listens as he explains everything, and gives him a gold start because he did such a good job and drew so many things. Dirthamen is very happy when his Papae comes to pick him up. He gets his hug and kiss before Papae buckles him into the car, and they sing songs on the way home. But then Dirthamen gets tired, so they have a quiet time when they get inside, because otherwise Dirthamen gets  _over-stimulated._  And then he usually cries and feels bad and it’s  _no good,_  Papae says.

He forgets about his picture, but Papae checks his bag before dinner, and finds it anyway.

His eyes widen, for a moment, when he looks at it. Dirthamen is sitting at the table, and he exclaims when he sees what his Papae’s looking at.

“That’s my drawing!” he says. 

Papae looks at it again, and then comes over and bends down beside his booster chair.

“Tell me about it,” Papae asks. Then he points at the Moon Spirit. “Who’s this?”

“That’s my  _side-kick,_  Papae!” Dirthamen says, and his Papae looks a little worried, but then he seems to worry less as Dirthamen explains more and more about the picture. And by the time he’s done, things are completely normal again. Papae exclaims over it and says it’s  _just beautiful,_  and kisses his forehead before he goes to replace another picture on their fridge with it. Their fridge is always covered. Papae’s got  _lots_ of magnets, but it’s still not enough.

They have a good dinner, all of Dirthamen’s food is in good shapes, and Papae watches some cartoons with him and plays with him before bed. 

When he tucks him in, he brushes Dirthamen’s hair back from his forehead.

“Sweetheart,” he says. “You would tell me if you had any bad dreams, wouldn’t you?”

Dirthamen’s face scrunches a little.

“You mean like the shadow monster dream?” he asks.

Papae smiles, proud, and nods at him. He reaches down to boop his nose.

“Just like that, yes,” he says. 

“I would tell!” Dirthamen says. “I would get up and go in your room, jus’ like you say’d to.”

His Papae nods again.

“And what do you say in the dream, if a strange spirit comes up to you?”

Dirthamen knows this!

“I say, ‘go away, spirit, I’m too little for you’. An’ if it doesn’t, I wake up!”

Papae lets out a breath, happy, and then gives him a big smile.

“Exactly right,” he says. “What a smart son I have!”

DIrthamen smiles back, pleased and warm, with the giddy tingle of approval still lingering him over him. In the end it makes him a little too happy to sleep, so Papae reads to him again before he finally can. 

He drifts off to the feel of a hand on his cheek, and the warm sense of safety all around him.

 

~

 

Marassal likes to run. It’s one of the few physical exercises that he still enjoys after the long and rather odd life he’s lived. Running is direct, it feels good, he is going  _somewhere_. It helps get his blood moving in a healthy and productive way. 

Though he supposes that after spending a few centuries of this, he’s developed quite the nice runner’s physique. He doesn’t really notice that much until he adopts Dirthamen and moves into a new, family oriented neighborhood. 

He is out doing his normal run, Dirthamen safely strapped into the jogger stroller, burbling at a new toy Marassal got for him when a blue sedan slowly rolls up to him.

“Marassal! Hey!” Ugh,  _Guilame_. The man is a menace, really, and every time Marassal sees him, it’s nigh impossible to not do anything. He reminds him and Desire of the man’s triplets, the adorable little girls who are very sweet little things with rosy cheeks and like to give Dirthamen lollipops. 

 _Think of the children!_ He screams in his head. 

“Guilame! How unexpected,” he says, playing how out of breath he is up. He is running after all, don’t want to give the impression that he particularly wants human contact at the moment. 

Guilame’s eyes dart down to Marassal’s ass, making him glower. 

“Guilame, do be a dear and remove your eyes from my bottom, we are in the presence of a child, perversions will not be tolerated,” he warns but the man is maddeningly slow to pry his disgusting eyes off of Marassal’s body.

 _I want to remove his eyeballs from his head._  Desire growls. 

“That’s ridiculous, Marassal! What are you talking about, I’m a married man you know.”

“Yes, but  _you_ don’t seem to know that you are.”

“Look, when you wear those leggings -

Marassal stops listening and reminds himself that Dirthamen is  _right there_. A baby, his son,  _right there_. If Marassal did anything, it would put his son at risk. 

Guilame has cornered him. Approached him on the street while he is out on a run with his baby purposefully. 

Well then.

Marassal turns and smiles at Guilame.

“You’re absolutely right, Guilame. I wanted you to look at me in these normal, black, opaque leggings that help with circulation while running. I crave you and your…whatever it is you have to offer. I’ll meet you at your house?” Marassal suggests and then he takes off, running almost at full speed down the street towards the Pierre household. 

“Wait!” Guilame calls, but it’s too late, Marassal’s at the door, ringing the bell.

Claire, Guilame’s wife, answers the door, “Marassal! What a pleasure! And little Dirthamen! Looking cute as ever, were you thinking of a play date? The girls are still eating breakfast, but maybe later?”

“Oh Claire! Just the woman I was seeking. Please, may I come in? It concerns your husband.” Claire’s eyes widen and she peers around Marassal to look a tthe man frantically climbing out of his car and running up the walkway.

“Don’t listen to him Claire!”

“Marassal, what did he do?” Claire asks and Marassal grins. This is not the first time Guilame has wandered and been rather perverted with his neighbors. Poor Linda felt so violated from his wandering eyes and picture taking she moved across town. And Jerome still refuses to go to Block Parties after the Butt Grab incident. Enough is enough, really, Marassal thinks.

“Your perverted old man here believes that I am soliciting him by running…in these leggings, because of course I am. Because as we all know, these are the most revealing running garments out there.”

Claire’s hands turn into fists and she lets out a long sigh.

“Alright, that’s it. I’m filing the papers.”

“Claire no! I’ll change!”

“No you won’t! You’re a danger to our girls! Go away!” 

“I know a very nice lawyer who can get you a restraining order today and divorced as soon as possible,” Marassal whispers and she nods.

“Text me! Now, play date with the girls after lunch?”

“Sounds splendid!” Marassal grins and jogs back off with little Dirthamen who is still happily burbling at his toy. 

Who knew suburbia was such a dramatic place?

 

~

 

It is exceptionally difficult for Marassal to not shower Dirthamen with gifts any day of the week, let alone his birthday. But his son is sensitive and prone to getting overwhelmed, even by indisputably good things. Marassal has learned that a staggered approach is best to make sure Dirthamen can enjoy everything Marassal wants to give but doesn’t wind up feeling overwhelmed and needing to be alone for a while.

Dirthamen’s birthday is celebrated over the course of a week. This year, it falls on a Thursday, which both him and Dirthamen take off to go to the children’s museum. Dirthamen ends up spending most of his time in the new space exhibit. The weekdays leading up to it are full of Dirthamen’s favorite foods, shows, games, and a new toy each day. They are exceptionally good days, but not great hoorahs. On Friday, Marassal brings cupcakes to his school and there is a party there that is lowkey enough for Dirthamen to enjoy.

On Saturday, they spend the day at the pool with new pool toys. Dirthamen is all too happy to show off his diving skills to go get the little toys until his ears start to bother him. After that, they chill on the lazy river and Dirthamen tells him about the dreams he’s had. They’re mostly just odd gibberish but in the odd gibberish he can recognize the telltale signs of magic slowly beginning to make itself known.

On Sunday, they go to Ikea. If there is one thing that Marassal is shocked about, it’s Dirthamen’s amusement at having so many different areas so close together.

“Uh oh! We’re lost!” He exclaims in their third bedroom. Marassal directs him to the signs on the floor.

“Oooh,” he says then scurries along into a kitchen.

“I like that!” He points at a swirling black and white counter top with what appears to have bits of glass in it to make it shine. Marassal picks him up so he can see it better and touch it. He runs his hands over it and makes giggly happy noises.

“Maybe we should redo the kitchen with this? Or your bathroom?” Marassal suggests and Dirthamen nods.

“It’s pretty!”

Marassal has been wanting to redo his son’s bathroom. Tiled countertops can only ever so clean, but he had worried when Dirthamen was smaller, all the dust and construction and people. But clearly he needs to hop on it now. He sets Dirthamen on the counter top and snaps a picture of the tag.

When they get home, Marassal gives Dirthamen a bath and notices how long his hair has gotten. Very, very long. He brushes it all out without much complaint from Dirthamen who is wrapped up in his toys, but when he gets out of the tub he rubs his neck.

“Is your hair heavy, sweetheart?” Marassal asks.

“Yeah,” Dirthamen says. Well. That means one thing. Haircut time. He is absolutely unwilling to let a stranger get near his son’s head and ears with scissors, so he bundles Dirthamen up and puts him in a chair and sets to combing out his long, long hair.

When he picks up he scissors, something in him shakes a bit and he drops them.

 _I can do this,_ Desire whispers and while he isn’t a fan of letting her parent for periods of time…this is an exception. He steps back and watches as Desire moves to the front. Dirthamen smiles and waves.

“Purple Papae!” He exclaims and Desire nods.

“Yes, da’len, Purple Papae. Now do you want your hair here,” Desire holds their hand at Dirthamen’s clavicle, “or shorter, around your head?”

“Long like Papae’s,” Dirthamen answers and Desire hums as she begins to snip away at his hair. By the end of it, Dirthamen is shaking his head happily, giggling at how his hair flies now. There is a pile of hair under the chair and Desire wants to pick it up but Marassal is done sitting back now, thank you.

He pushes his way forward and sweeps up the hair before picking Dirthamen back up and letting him run around for a while before bed.

Marassal’s back itches, like his wings want to spring forth. But no, Dirthamen hasn’t seen him like that yet, he could scare him, or overwhelm him, or – no, he can maintain control. He flexes his back and turns to Dirthamen with a smile. He asks if he wants dessert and the boy nods emphatically.

Marassal opens the fridge and pulls out the homemade pudding he made the other night in the middle of a bout of insomnia. He makes a small bowl for Dirthamen and hands it over with his favorite spoon.

“Remember you need to sit down and eat so you don’t get a tummy ache,” Marassal reminds him gently. Dirthamen decides that the floor suits this purpose just as well as a chair and leans against the kitchen island. Well, at least he’s sitting. Marassal couches down with him with his own bowl.

His back itches and protests touching anything.

“Do you like it?” Marassal asks, trying to distract himself from his sensitivity.

“Uh huh. It’s mushy and feels nice in my mouth.” He sticks his hand in the pudding which was foreseeable to be fair.

“How does it feel on your hand?”

“Mushy and smooth!” Dirthamen giggles. He proceeds to lick his hand which was also foreseeable. Well, children are children, they know nothing and learn everything by doing. How was he going to really know that pudding is messy if he didn’t make a mess with it? And who’s to say the mouth and the hand feel things differently? Dirthamen has always been a fan of the exploration, just in moderation.

But this means that he needs another bath. Marassal writes it off as a tired parenting error and convinces Dirthamen to have another bath – this time in Marassal’s giant fancy tub. It’s copper and the water sounds differently in it, keeping Dirthamen entertained while Marassal quickly scrubs him down again. Dirthamen fusses at it, but they thankfully avoid a meltdown.

After he’s down for the night, Marassal lets his wings out. He sets to cleaning the kitchen and bathrooms, going much faster with the aid of his wings. He can’t fly because leaving Dirthamen would be horribly irresponsible but he can clean and stretch.

He looks up at the ceiling and wonders if he can take a summer vacation with Dirthamen and have the ceilings vaulted, having some rafters to lurk in would be nice.

He is halfway through cleaning the play room when Dirthamen wanders in, rubbing his eyes.

“I had a bad dream,” he mumbles then stops when he sees Marassal bent over with two of his favorite stuffed animals in his hands while two of his blocks are clutched by the talons at the end of his wings. Dirthamen’s eyes widen and Marassal straightens, flattening his wings behind his back.

“Oh no,” he breathes.

Dirthamen blinks and Marassal wonders if he can play it off as his son still having a dream…but no, that would be lying to his son. Too much lying. He had planned to be open about his condition eventually, just…not this soon.

He stands up sheepishly and holds his hands close to his body.

“Hi, sweetheart, I know this is a bit strange, but there is nothing to be afraid of. It’s like Purple Papae, sometimes I have wings and sometimes I don’t.” He waits as Dirthamen’s brow furrows and he thinks very hard.

“Will I get wings?” He asks finally and Marassal smiles.

“You may be a shapeshifter, we don’t know yet. But if you are, you can make your own wings – any way you’d like.”

“So it’s a magic thing?”

“Yes, but it’s a secret, okay? Can you be a little secret keeper for me?” Marassal asks and Dirthamen nods, stepping over to Marassal.

“Can I touch them?” He asks and Marassal carefully lets down one wing. Little hands run up the smooth skin and poke at the firmer bones within.

“Gently,” Marassal urges. Dirthamen’s face turns serious as he learns the wings with his hands.

“Can you fly?”

“If I want to.”

“Can I see your back?” Dirthamen asks and Marassal sits, spanning his wings out and letting Dirthamen examine where his wings sprout from his back. It is an odd feeling, having the small hands poke and prod, but not to get Marassal to do anything, just to learn. Because Dirthamen is curious, and he is good, he just wants to know.

“Wing Papae,” Dirthamen whispers and Marassal smiles. Right, just like Purple Papae. One day Dirthamen will understand the full implications of the wings and Purple Papae, of the sometimes-long nails and why he sometimes dresses so funny or speaks in the wrong language. But for now, the five-year-old just needs to learn about wings.

Dirthamen comes around to Marassal’s front and leans into him for a hug.

“There’s a monster in my closet,” he says on a yawn and Marassal chuckles.

“Do you want me to scare it away or sleep in my bed?” Marassal asks and Dirthamen sighs.

“I want to sleep in my bed.”

“Scaring it away it is then!” He decides, picking Dirthamen back up and carrying him back to his room. He tucks Dirthamen in then turns to the closet.

“Be gone, foul beast!” he cries, throwing open the doors. A large bag comes tumbling down and into Marassal.

Dirthamen laughs, “Oooh, it was the bag.” A  _heavy_ bag. Marassal opens it to find it full of all of Dirthamen’s old shoes. Right, he keeps meaning to donate these. Marassal chuckles and sets the bag aside.

“Alright, problem solved! And look! No monsters, just shoes.” He returns to Dirthamen’s bed and tucks him in, humming an old song that Marassal’s mother used to sing to him.

Dirthamen doesn’t know the language, the slave tongue, but he knows the tune and it soothes him. Hands and talons smooth his hair down and lips kiss his forehead good night.

 

~

 

When he is twenty-one, Dirthamen and his Papae take a year off to go travelling around Thedas.

It seems to Dirthamen like his Papae is looking for something, although he doesn’t actually say as much. But Marassal is a Desire Abomination, and is prone to strange preoccupations and spontaneity. And Dirthamen thinks that if someone lives for a very long time, then they probably have moments where they find themselves searching for the meaning of life, or similar such ineffable things. It’s a nice trip, anyway. A lovely vacation to lots of interesting places, mostly off the beaten path, and Dirthamen collects a lot of specimens and takes a lot of photographs, and feels wholly rejuvenated even if he still hasn’t decided what he wants to do with his life.

His Papae is very supportive on that front, though he seems less overall pleased with the end results of their vacation.

“It will all come together, somehow. We just have to figure out  _how…”_  he says.

Dirthamen nods, and after a few nights of contemplation, decides that he will go with his gut and accept his father’s offer of a start-up loan, and follow his dream of owning his own book shop.

It’s not exactly a simple matter. Online sales are more popular for books, but Dirthamen understands computers fairly well, and sets up his own little shop. Eventually he finds a network of used book sellers to join in with, and makes a deal with one of the local thrift shops and some community charities. It takes about three years for him to start actually making a profit, but slowly, bit by bit, his shop gains a reputation and he finds some very good suppliers, and online business booms as foot traffic increases. Diversifying his stock with some magic-oriented items requires a lot of licensing, and he has to pass half a dozen government mandated tests and put his name on several registries. His life seems to work better when he can managed to keep to a schedule, but it always seems far too easy to distract him or knock him off course. He has to re-take three tests because he misses them, but he manages.

He’s twenty-six, and his shop has been in business for four years, when he wakes up one morning to find that someone has thrown a brick through the window.

He has no idea what prompted it, but stores owned by mages and stores owned by elves often seem to incur this sort of reaction. Dirthamen patches up the window, and checks and is relieved to find that none of the books were damaged, at least. He files a police report, but he gets the impression that he’s not doing it right, and his father comes and fusses and calls the people responsible  _wretches._

It could have been an accident, though. Just the same, Dirthamen reinforces his windows with some spells to deflect blows, and saves up to get a security camera. Some of his books are quite valuable, although nearly all of the ones which are would be difficult to actually sell – unique volumes and old texts are distinctive, and easier to track than a lot of other things.

But the broken window seems to let in a rush of objections that he doesn’t really know what to make of. There are people on online forums calling his store a ‘blight on the community’. They seem to find his stock inappropriate, and his location next to an erotic bookstore somehow damning to both of them by sheer proxy. They are both very far away from the nearest school district, but Dirthamen supposes that it is true that they are also technically ‘just a bus ride away from impressionable children’. He does not suffer any more broken windows, but one of the local chapters of the chantry puts a ban on his store, and there are several attempts at defacing the front with graffiti. His security camera catches several individuals, but the police tell him not to get his hopes up, and that it ‘could be anyone’ in the footage.

There is another incident, wherein a woman decides to read several select verses from the Chant of Light while walking outside of his door. His neighbour, Zevran, who owns the erotic book shop, comes out and starts countering her with passages from  _Three Nights in a Chantry,_  which is not necessarily fit for public readings, but he does not get very far before the woman leaves.

Eventually, the furor starts to die down. Not entirely, Dirthamen doesn’t think, but he figures out how to charm his windows so that they will not let paint stick to them, which limits vandals to the side wall and back alley, and those are harder to see from the street. At Zevran’s advice, he goes to a local animal shelter to obtain a ‘shop cat’, which can ‘stare creepily off at invisible things and make certain people too uncomfortable to enter the store, at least, if they are a suspicious sort’. Dirthamen ends up coming home with a rescued pet crow instead, a bird with clipped wings and a lot of intelligence, despite her tendency to tilt her head at odd angles due to slight brain damage from an injury.

“Even better!” Zevran declares, delighted.

He starts coming over on his lunch break to feed Blackbird tiny chunks of meat.

Dirthamen is twenty-seven when the bell for his shop door rings. It is late, technically closing time, but he had forgotten to flip the sign again. He is restocking some of the shelves on the second floor, and glances down over the balcony to see who has come in.

It is a woman.

Elven, and tall. Fair-haired and long-legged, with very sharp, striking features, that he can detect even with his odd angle on her. She is dressed in a long coat and faded jeans. Her hair is pulled mostly into a messy ponytail. She looks around the shop, and something about it makes Dirthamen think of dreams, for a moment. Glassy instances that linger between perceptions, and slow time down to make all the details more noticeable. There is ink on the woman’s fingers, and on one corner of her jaw. There is something about her countenance that makes Dirthamen think of mages, and of oddities, and of long nights with lots of books and studying and shutters drawn against the sunlight.

He freezes, and feels inexplicably like he should go and get his camera.

But he doesn’t have permission to take this woman’s photograph. She’s a customer, and this is his shop, and he’s learned that’s rude. With some trial and error. The woman walks over to Blackbird, and looks faintly concerned.

“Just a moment, please!” Dirthamen calls out, and makes his way down the light staircase.

The woman freezes to the spot.

“Ah, good evening!” Dirthamen says, as he comes up behind her. “My apologies, the shop is technically closed, but I forgot to flip the sign. It’s no matter, though, I’m restocking so you can feel free to browse for a few minutes. Unless you came by to find something in specific.  I should probably go and flip the sign, though, before I forget again. One time I left it open until eleven o’clock – at night – and one of my customers became convinced that I was open late and seemed very upset to find out that it was not my regular schedule. I wouldn’t be able to afford it, though, not that many people like to buy books after seven pm, even though most readers seem to be night owl types. I tried it for a few weeks but it was just very tiring, and the few people who came mostly ended up ordering online anyway. Oh! That reminds me, we  _do_  have an online store, and you are welcome to browse our selection there. You can have books shipped right to your address, or place orders of in-store pick up. But like I said, you can also browse right now, at least until I have to go home. But  _were_  you looking for something in specific? Because if you weren’t I can make some recommendations, if you tell me your interests. We have textbooks, too, with student discounts. Most of them are used but we try to keep a wide selection. And some of them are very interesting even if you’re  _not_ a student, although I still recommend leaving the actual textbooks for the students to buy and purchasing similar books on the same subject, I can usually find something that is more specific anyway.”

The woman doesn’t turn around while Dirthamen is speaking. Instead she seems to be staring very rigidly at Blackbird. He wonders if he’s gone too fast, and decides to just head over and flip the shop sign, and give her a moment. Perhaps she is nervous of birds? Well, it’s about time to settle Blackbird in for the night anyway, so Dirthamen goes and fetches her sleeping cage from behind the counter, and then heads over with it.

When the woman finally turns to look at him, her gaze fixes on his face. Dirthamen actually makes eye-contact, for a moment, before sliding his own gaze back over to Blackbird. He can feel the customer looking at him, though, watching intently as he gets the shop bird into her cage. Blackbird flaps a little, but she knows she will get treats before bed if she behaves, and so she does. He feeds her one of her favourite snacks, carrying her back to the register and letting her munch, before he pulls the tarp fully over the cage and makes it ‘night time’ for her. Then he settles the cage into its usual spot, feeling eyes on him all the while.

He looks up again, at the sound of footsteps.

The woman walks towards him.

“Are you alright?” he asks, now. Sometimes he gets customers who aren’t in a good way. Too much lyrium, or too many drugs, or recent trauma. Sometimes all three. He glances at the woman’s arms, but he doesn’t see any needle marks or scars. Her nails are purple, he notes. A very  _particular_  purple, which gives him pause, as he glances back up at her, and reconsiders.

Is she an abomination? Like Papae?

It’s probably not a good idea to just ask that, he knows, some secrets are trickier than others.

But if she  _is,_  and she’s having troubles, then that won’t do. She comes to a halt a few steps away, and her expression wavers. One of her hands comes up to her mouth.

“It’s alright,” Dirthamen finds himself saying, though he’s not sure what he’s promising. Still, he thinks, it can be. Things can be alright, as long as there’s someone to help. As long as you know the right steps to take, and what better place to figure such things out than a book store? “Maybe if you tell me what’s wrong, we can start sorting things out? If you don’t like the shop, there’s a little café just across the street…”

The woman swallows.

“There is?” she says.

It’s the first sound she’s made since she came in. But it instantly makes Dirthamen feel a little more at ease. That’s a good voice, he thinks. Not high and false, or snide, or defensive. It seems a bit like it’s been punched out of the poor woman, though. He can almost hear his father tutting in his head, and he thinks that if he was here, he would be reaching out to pat his customer’s hand and tell her that what she needs is probably a nice sit down to just breathe for a few moments. Life can be overwhelming, but that’s usually just because it’s full of so many possibilities. Things to see, and do, and learn, and want.

Dirthamen is not as good at helping, but he can try.

He offers the woman a smile.

“Just let me lock up,” he suggests. “And I’ll buy you a coffee, and we can talk about whatever it is you’re looking for.”

She lets out a shaky breath, like something between laughing and gasping and crying. Her eyes are starting to shine.

“Are you real?” she asks him.

Dirthamen’s brow furrows. Oh, so she’s having  _those_  sorts of problems.

“Yes,” he assures her. “I’m very real. So is the crow you saw, and so are the books, and so is this shop. Do you know what street you’re on, and how you got here?”

The woman clears her throat.

“Yes,” she says. “I drove here, we’re on Archway, just near to Queen’s Street and next to an erotic book store.”

Dirthamen smiles.

“Exactly,” he confirms. He’s already closed out the till, so he just sets about checking all of his locks. He can finish restocking in the morning, he thinks.

“I’m sorry,” the woman says, after a moment. “I’m sorry, that was… I must seem very strange, right now.”

Dirthamen offers her another smile, relieved that she seems to be able to speak, now.

“Strangeness doesn’t offend me,” he assures her. “But it can be a little worrying. May I buy you a tea or a coffee, or something to eat?” He doesn’t think he would feel right about letting her drive off without making sure she’s consistently lucid.

“Yes!” the woman blurts, all in a rush, now. “Yes you can, you absolutely can, I would like that very much!”

Dirthamen blinks.

The woman slowly tilts her head back, and sucks in a long breath, and closes her eyes for a moment. Then she exhales.

“Sorry,” she says. “I mean… if it’s not too much trouble…”

“It’s not,” he assures her.

After all, this is by far the most interesting customer he’s had in a long while.

 

~

 

Dirthamen leads his mystery customer to the café he had mentioned. 

It’s where he usually takes his lunch break, when his budgeting allows for some splurging. His father would happily over-indulge him, but ever since the shop could manage it, he’s been trying to take care of his own finances. To… admittedly mixed results, but he’s figured a lot out for himself by now.

The woman stares at him, quite a bit. He wonders if she’s a student, on top of everything else. She has the look of someone who has burned themselves quite low, and that’s usually students, in his experience. Up closer she smells like ink and paper and clothes that have gone just a little too long between washings. It takes her a minute to summon up an order; she goes with ‘just a glass of water’, at first, but with a little prompting, Dirthamen manages to get her up to a tea and a lemon square.

“My name is Dirthamen,” he introduces, once they’ve settled in at their table.

“…Selene,” the woman manages.

“That is a lovely name,” he offers. “So what brought you to my book shop, Selene? A quest for a particular book? Or were you just walking by and thought it looked like a good place to step in? Or maybe you were looking for  _Antivan Daydreams,_  that’s next door. It’s open past midnight, so I can take you there, after you finished your tea, if you would like.” He feels a little reluctant, too. Almost as though he would be relinquishing his customer; odd because he’s never cared about such things before. And Zevran is good at keeping an eye out for people. Selene probably wouldn’t get into trouble in his shop.

She stares at him for a moment more, with a look he doesn’t know how to decipher.

“I’m sorry,” he says, after a while. “I’m not very good with subtle nonverbal cues. My father tried to help me with it when I was younger, and I’ve made some improvements, but it’s not something I think I’ll ever be expert at. I tried an app to help with it once, you are supposed to take a photo of the expression in question and the app will tell you what it’s meant to convey – but it was too simplistic. I could tell as much as the program could, and it didn’t have room to incorporate complexities like cultural or situational context and nuanced variations.”

Dirthamen takes a pause to sip his own tea.

Selene blinks.

“I like your hair,” he offers, a little nervous that he has said something inappropriate. Maybe it will be better if he just… covers it all with something else, now. “The curl on your forehead is charming. Are you a student? I like students, we have a lot of medical students in the area. Some of them come to study in the shop, especially on the second floor. The chairs there are comfortable and sometimes they sleep in them, I don’t think their beds at home are very comfortable. Do you have a place to sleep?”

Selene blinks, again, and then manages a nod. Dirthamen sips his tea, and slowly, Selene lifts her own to her lips. She doesn’t really answer many of his questions, but she doesn’t seem too bothered by him, either. And after a while she finishes her lemon square, and her warm drink, and there seems to be more colour in her cheeks.

When they leave the café, Dirthamen is tentatively willing to trust her behind the wheel of her own car.

Her expression shifts, and she reaches over and grasps his arm.

“Come home with me,” she asks, in a sudden rush. “Come home with me, Dirthamen,  _please.”_

Well.

That’s unexpected.

Almost as swiftly as she’d grabbed him, Selene lets go of him, again. She hisses inarticulately, and turns away so fast that she almost does a full spin.

Dirthamen assesses.

Maybe she is not fit to drive?

Or… maybe this is a one-night stand?

It doesn’t seem to follow the format from television, but then again, few things ever do.

“Please give me a moment,” Dirthamen requests, and then fishes out his phone, and quickly texts his father. Papae should be available, around this time, and he’s rarely slow to answer Dirthamen’s texts or calls.

_A woman just asked me to go home with her. I think she is very distressed, and it is not entirely clear what she is asking me for. What should I do?_

As ever, it doesn’t take him long to get a reply.

 _Is she drunk? Are you safe?_  his father asks.  _Where are you?_

 _We’re at the café across from the shop,_  Dirthamen admits.  _I don’t know if she’s inebriated. I think she might be a bomb._

There is a slightly longer pause.

 _Did she give you a name?_  his father asks.

An odd question. Although maybe not so much, his father has said that he knows other abominations, here and there.

 _Yes. Selene,_  he provides.

_!!!! OH GOOD! Take her home darling~! Have lots of fun, she needs to be much less reclusive! Text me the address and I’ll be over first thing in the morning!!_

That… was not the response Dirthamen was expecting. But after a moment, he simply shrugs, and pockets his phone again.

“Were you calling the police?” Selene asks him. She looks as if she has just finished having an argument, although she hasn’t said a thing since he took out his phone.

“No,” he tells her. “Where is your car?” His own can stay here. Hopefully no one will vandalize it before he can come back. Selene swallows, but then her arm shoots out and points to a small sedan, the sort that looks like it was built for safety more than anything. Dirthamen  decides that under the circumstances, gentlemanliness is probably called for. He offers Selene his arm, and after another moment of delay he cannot parse, she takes it.

Dirthamen offers to drive. She accepts with ease, murmuring an address and giving him her keys, and then curling into the passenger seat with body language that Dirthamen  _does_ recognize. Exhaustion. Probably also a headache, and an internal conflict. His father is not prone to disagreeing with his spirit, but it has happened before. He is usually very tired, afterwards, and requires some caring for. Not intensely, but small gestures help.

Dirthamen does not know what Selene would consider to be helpful, though. So he focuses on driving her home, and texts his father the address when they arrive.

It is an apartment building, as it happens.

“You should go home,” Selene tells him, as they park. “I’m so sorry, that was very inappropriate of me. You’ve probably got someone waiting for you…”

“It is alright,” Dirthamen says, helping her out of the car. Her hand is warm in his own. Almost feverish, in fact. “I texted my father, to let him know where I am.”

“Your father,” Selene says. “Who is your father? Elgar’nan? Iphram?”

Dirthamen blinks.

“I don’t know either of those people,” he says. Guessing names seems like a very inefficient way of inquiring after someone’s parents. She isn’t even doing it alphabetically, unless she already has a short list. Perhaps she does? Maybe she’s mistaken him for someone else?

“Of course you don’t,” Selene murmurs, shutting her eyes.

Then she squares her shoulders, and in another rush, grasps Dirthamen by the arm and begins leading him determinedly up the apartment stairs. It’s an older building. There doesn’t seem to be an elevator, but there aren’t that many floors, either. Dirthamen goes along, not particularly bothered. Selene doesn’t strike him as threatening, and his father said it was fine. So it probably is. He makes note of the peeling wallpaper and stained carpet, the old-fashioned locks on the door as Selene hastily opens the one which corresponds to her address, and then drags him inside.

When she shuts the door behind him, her eyes are strangely coloured.

Definitely an abomination, he thinks.

“I thought we lost you twice,” she says. “You died, and then I thought you died again. I waited so long, the thought of living two lifetimes without you… I thought it was damaged, somehow, that you had fallen out of the cycles. Oh,  _Dirthamen…”_

He’s still trying to figure out what she means when she slumps into his arms, and starts to sob. Crumbling horns showing up like phantoms, curling amidst her hair.  _Desire,_  Dirthamen thinks. Except that something is wrong. He’s not expert enough to know what, but he’s familiar enough with the practicalities of a Desire Abomination to tell that  _something_  has.

What did she say?

Someone has died.

Not actually Dirthamen himself, obviously, but perhaps someone like him. And now it seems she wants him to hold her. Well, he can do that, and it will probably help. Desire likes to be fulfilled. There’s an awkward moment while Dirthamen tries to figure out where to put his hands, but then he just folds them around her, in the end. Runs one up and down the top of her back, while the other settles into the middle of it.

Desires.

Small desires. Those are the daily meals of Selene’s kind. Desires for comfort, kind words, those are fairly common, he thinks. Easy to make some suppositions about.

“You’re alright,” he says.

He’s a little surprised when Selene shucks her hands up underneath his jacket, and his shirt, and settles them against the skin of his back. It’s a much more intimate move than he expected. But she doesn’t do anything more than shiver, for a moment, seeping feverish warmth and closing slightly glassy eyes, until the mirage of horns recedes again.

It’s a testament to his surprise that Dirthamen takes some time to actually  _look_  at the apartment.

It’s very tiny. There doesn’t seem to be any distinction between the bedroom, living room, or kitchen; just a microwave on top of a mini-fridge, and a messy bed/couch, and a whiteboard covered in dark ink, and books. Stacks upon stacks of books, with one laptop balanced on a higher, wider mountain of them. There is a bathroom, but it looks more like an ambitious closet, and a few towels are clumped up by the doorway. The whole place smells of ink and coffee.

Dirthamen is just about ready to try and navigate Selene towards her couch/bed, mindful that he not step on any books, when a soft jangling sound fill the air.

It’s coming from Selene’s pocket.

“Is that your phone?” Dirthamen asks.

Selene just burrows more thoroughly against him, pressing her nose to his pulse, before letting out a long sigh. After a few minutes, the ringing stops. It doesn’t seem to bother her, to have missed the call. Dirthamen gives it another moment before he determines that trying to navigate them both would likely just cause collateral book-damage, and sucks in a breath, before bending down and scooping Selene up into his arms.

She weighs less than his father, at least.

Dirthamen feels rather pleased with himself when he gets her safely to the nest of blankets and pillows.

“Come here,” she says, as he puts her down. Her hands close over his shoulders, and he doesn’t need to be an expert to see the longing on her face. “ _Dirthamen_.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever even imagined someone saying his name like that. Not outside of his deepest, strangest dreams, at least. And for all that she is dishevelled and tired, he thinks Selene is a very beautiful woman. Not in a typical way, perhaps. He would be surprised to see her as anything other than a villain on a television show. But it is entrancing – though that might just be the Desire in her.

Dirthamen finds he doesn’t object very much, though. He lets her pull him down into the blankets and pillows with her, and lets her shove her hands back up under his shirt, and doesn’t even mind when she presses her lips to the side of his neck. They stay like that for a few minutes more, until the presence of shoes and outside jackets becomes uncomfortable. The buckle of his belt is digging into his stomach, and the blankets are clumped haphazardly…

He feels a rush of epiphany, suddenly, recollecting when he was younger, and his room was in complete disarray. How that had made him feel like his life was, too, and so his father had frowned and then gone and gotten a garbage bag and a bottle of cleaner and a rag, and started methodically showing him to clean things. Even though his father was a devil-may-care type, he had figured out what was needed, to make Dirthamen feel better.

Maybe Selene has gone for too long without someone coming and helping her organize things?

Tentatively, Dirthamen coaxes her off of him. She doesn’t seem to like it, but when he asks her to let go, she does.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

Dirthamen pats her shoulder, as she drops her face into her hands.

“Does your building have a laundry?” he asks.

Selene looks at him as if he has just started speaking a different language.

Dirthamen is pretty sure he didn’t, though, he doesn’t normally switch languages without a conscious effort, and elvhen doesn’t have an easy word for ‘laundry’ anyway.

“Selene?” he prompts.

“…No?” she manages.

Dirthamen nods, and takes out his phone, and googles the nearest laundromat. A block away. That’s not too bad, and it’s twenty-four-hours. He nods again, this time to himself, and gets up. Then he reaches over and helps Selene up, too.

“Are you on any medications?” he asks.

She seems a little less taken aback at this question.

“No,” she tells him, with a sigh. “I’m so sorry…”

“I’m not offended,” he assures her.

His efforts to locate a suitable laundry basket come up empty, however, so in the end he has Selene gather up several bedsheets and towels and starts putting them into some black garbage bags. They fill four of them, in the end, all full of clothes and linens and other things that need to be washed. Dirthamen leaving seems to cause some distress, so they end up carrying them down to the car together, even though he would rather take two trips and save Selene expending the energy. He still has her keys, so they drive to the laundromat, and load up four machines. And then they go across the street, to a big chain pharmacy-slash-grocery-store, and Dirthamen buys her some benign headache medication and a big bottle of water, and some all-purpose cleaner, and sponges, and brushes. Upon consideration he also gets rubber gloves and some more specific cleaners that they have, and then some food, too. Just a few leafy pre-packaged salads and microwave meals. Dirthamen is not a nutritional expert, but he knows food helps.

It takes quite a lot of time, and it’s actually somewhat interesting to do cleaning in the late evening. By the time midnight has rolled around, the laundry is long done, and Dirthamen has managed to finish cleaning the bathroom, and the windows, and the little kitchen area. The clothes have been folded and put away, and Selene has been steadily organizing her books and notes. Dirthamen has re-made the couch bed and fed them both, and he is feeling very accomplished, even as he can’t seem to stop the steady stream of information pouring out of him; interesting facts about cleaning solutions and chemistry and urban myths and bomb making and all sorts of things with varying degrees of appropriateness.

He steps back from the last scrubbed-down windowsill, and looks around the room.

Still very small and cluttered, but  _much_  more orderly, now.

Selene also seems less dazed.

“You just cleaned my apartment,” she notes.

“We did it together,” Dirthamen says. “I think you needed it. Not that I am judging you, but sometimes messes get out of hand. My own do. I usually have troubles figuring things out when there’s more mess than I can think around.” And that is often a  _lot_  of mess. Dirthamen has lost more things than he probably ever should have by misplacing them in a giant pile of discarded papers or laundry.

Selene closes her eyes.

“You’re… this is… are you  _sure_  this is real?” she checks.

“Very,” Dirthamen tells her. “Do you want another hug? I don’t mind, it’s good to have physical grounding sometimes.”

Selene shakes her head. But she does come towards him, also, so Dirthamen wraps his arms around her.

“Should I stay the night?” he wonders.

“Stay the night with a weird stranger you just met?” she asks.

He shrugs.

“You invited a weird stranger you just met home with you,” he says. “If things are strange then at least we’re both responsible.”

Selene makes an odd sound, but only holds him closer.

“I missed you,” she says.

It’s a strange thing to say.

What’s even stranger is that Dirthamen feels like his first answer should be ‘me too’.

 

~

 

The plan had always been to find Selene after Dirthamen came of age to have a relationship like that. So Marassal took him traveling when he turned 21 and every little lead that Marassal scrounged up came up empty.

He couldn’t find her or her son. They had vanished. Which, all things considered, was understandable, They were still reeling from the Templar involvement all those years ago. But it made surprising Selene with this very good man he’s raised difficult.

When they return home, he has an episode. His skin crawls and shivers, expanding and retracting in painful contortions. Desire has been denied and she regrettably does not deal with that and it’s been getting worse over the years. Dirthamen tries to help, comforting touches, making food - but there is only so much he can do while Marassal keeps his desire, the thing he wants, secret. His back shivers and his wings spring from his back from the magical pressure. They’re not pretty bird wings, he is not pretty when he is…like this.

He had never wanted to be pretty like this, the goal wasn’t to be seductive but to be terrifying. To be left alone. The desire for freedom beating so hot inside of him.

But it doesn’t phase Dirthamen, if anything it…helps cue him. Marassal has gotten those whole self-care for his abomination self down to an art. He keeps himself happy, he’s learned how to take care of himself by not fighting his desires, by accepting them and acting. It’s…resulted in a few issues, but he is alive and not dying. Self-care is important. But there are times where this self-care only goes so far.

Marassal’s lingers on the couch, heaving as his body tries to find an equilibrium in form. Dirthamen makes dinner - chicken and dumplings soup, and he helps Marassal slowly sip on it.

By the morning, Marassal is back to normal. Desire is riding a bit higher than normal, tinting his normally brown eyes purple, but he’s contained in his body. Dirthamen has questions, so many questions, and Marassal does his best to answer them.

“How did you become an abomination?”

Marassal blinks and when he smiles, his teeth are ragged and sharp, “That is not a story for my son to hear.” Dirthamen’s eyes widen slightly but he nods and moves onto more mundane questions.

Years pass but Marassal doesn’t give up. Dammit, he’ll find Selene. He’ll find her. It’s more than setting her and Dirthmen up, now he’s genuinely concerned for her. Desire aboms do not hide like this, it’s unnatural for them. The more they hide, the more they isolate themselves from society…it’s like a sickness, not being able to feed and sustain the Desire, slowly and surely corrupting the spirit to desperate levels.

It’s how aboms become the abominations of old.

He goes through all of his contacts and begins to infiltrate police databases. Looking for any clues.

Nothing.

Dirthamen is twenty-seven when one of the leads dings. Sort of. There has been a recent submission of a set of equations to a publication of Mathematics Today. The contributor of these equations is listed under a blatant pseudonym. He gets in contact with the publisher who have nothing to contact the contributor with other than an email.

Hm. Sending a “Hey! Your true love isn’t dead and he can be found at these marvelous coordinates!” won’t work. If anything, it’ll send her deeper underground.

Instead, Marassal contacts Dirthamen and poses the idea that perhaps emailing coupons to the bookstore will generate more revenue. It’s not a hard sell, and Marassal offers to take up the emailing.

He puts in the email he got from Mathematics Today and attaches the coupon.

Buy One $10 Book and Get one Free!

It lists the store’s name, the online store, the telephone number, and most importantly the store owner’s name. It’s…a bit of a longshot.

But then…then he gets that wonderful text. A strange woman by the name of Selene asking Dirthamen to come home with her.

Finally.

He drives all night to make it into the city where Dirthamen and Selene are set up. He picks up muffins and doughnuts before heading to the apartment. He quickly assesses the environment and finds it lacking - there are few places for indulgences, mostly laundromats, pawn shops, and small family owned restaurants. Not that there is anything wrong with these fine establishments, but they’re not particularly nourishing for Selene and that is concerning.

The apartment complex is even worse. Drab and depressing, colorless, filled with people who are unable to fulfill their desires. And what desire is filled is not the sort to keep Desire healthy. There is despair and longing but no actual desire beyond hopes and dreams. Nothing concrete, nothing sustaining.

The tendrils of her passenger eek out past the door to her apartment, flaring irregularly as he tries to gain a hold of what is going on. Marassal can only catch a few stray thoughts.

Is this real?

How is he not dead?

What’s going on?

Dirthamen.

Oh dear, ooooh dear. Perhaps…he should have reached out to Selene after rescuing Dirthamen. Assured her that her love wasn’t dead like the reports….

One of them would have taken him from us, his own Desire laments.

No matter, what’s done is done.

He knocks on the door and Des flares in severe annoyance.

Now, now, Des, is that any way to treat an old friend? Desire coos. A moment passes before the deadbolt and locks click open and Selene cracks the door open, eyes bright purple.

“What are you doing here?!”

He holds up the boxes of muffins and doughnuts and smiles, “Dirthamen! Dirthamen, darling, I’m here,” he turns to Selene with a smile, “my son asked me to come, he believes you need help.”

Des wriggles possessively in front of the door, clearly not wanting to share the only source of desire fulfilled in an…undetermined amount of time. Desire unfurls inside of Marassal and reaches out to Des, letting some of her power roll out and onto him. An olive branch,of a sort. Selene’s eyes flash and she shivers.

“Selene, I am not here to take him away - but he does need to keep his blood sugar up, otherwise he gets a little moody. In fact, here,” he takes out a doughnut and hands it to Selene as he walks by, “get your blood sugar up, it helps.”

He walks into the apartment and Dirthamen emerges from the small bathroom, smiling.

“Papae! Oh good you brought food, I forgot to ask. I was looking in the fridge and I didn’t really see anything, so thank you. Sorry Selene, I should have told you. This is my father, Marassal and he’s like you? I think, I mean you have some of the signs that Papae has when he’s not feeling good so I just thought that he could maybe help?” Dirthamen fidgets and Marassal sets the boxes down before walking over to Selene. Desire inside of him unfurls and presses into Des, asking for communication.

What is going on?!

We rescued Dirthamen as a baby - we made Mythal and Elgar’nan believe he was dead and we rescued him. Raised him, loved him, supported him.

A barrage of emotion swirls in Selene’s aura, half Des half her as the tenuous equilibrium they had suddenly comes into flux. Des is awake and starving. Desire pushes them to eat the doughnut, and she begins to nibble on it, slowly gaining more momentum as she goes. Desire gives Des a bit more sustenance, he drove by a plastic surgeon’s office earlier and his tank fill to burst thanks to that. Des practically latches onto Desire, demanding more.

Desire gives as much as she can before it gets a little tenuous for them. By then, Marassal has guided Selene to the couch and she’s digging into her second doughnut. Dirthamen eats his blueberry muffin and doesn’t interfere in the clearly magical and very demonic activities going on.

“I’ve been thinking about becoming a house flipper slash restorer. There are all these houses in the area I live in that are roughly one hundred years old but they’re practically decaying away, it’s just not right. I lived through that era, I know what houses looked like, how they should feel. I just need to get my contractor’s license…that should take what? A year or two? Making people’s dreams come true with homes…that sounds like a good profession, you know, I could use a business partner with it. You could handle all the financials of it, help good deserving families get good homes? Just until you’re on your feet again, if you want, just an idea. Still, I’ve been in the mood for a career change. Sex line operator is just not doing it anymore.”

“Papae!” Dirthamen sputters and Marassal rolls his eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’ve only done it for the past five years.” Marassal rubs Selene’s back as she finishes eating her doughnut, rambling on about his future prospects. Her breathing deepens, her eyes become clearer, sharper. Des settles a bit more inside of her, not completely and not without agitation, but it’s better. Much better.

Her eyes dart over to Dirthamen and Marassal waves Dirthamen over.

“I need to use the restroom, how about you hold onto Selene for a bit?” Marassal stands and Dirthamen takes his place. Selene presses herself against him almost immediately, needing that contact.

This is real, Des. Desire reassures. This is real, he is alive, he’s here, he’s healthy and good.

 

~

 

It’s all a bit of a blur, really, when Marassal enters her apartment.

 

There are donuts and Des latching onto Desire for nourishment while the man she had met so long ago tells her that  _he_  raised Dirthamen.

He’s not dead.

He’s not dead.

He was never dead.

Oh, she could  _ **strangle**_  him.

 

 

He knew, she’s been alone and he’s been hiding him away, he stole him, he  _stole their Dirthamen away for himself-_

“Selene?” Dirthamen calls, squeezing her shoulder just enough to drag her out of her thoughts.

 

“Sorry,” she murmurs while she nuzzles against him, arms encircling his waist to pull him closer. Selfish, on her part. But just for a few minutes, just for now, she wants to be selfish. It has been so long since she allowed it. So long since she allowed herself near someone else.

 

“It is alright. Would you like another donut?”

“No thank you,” she mumbles against him.

 

He settles back again after that, and she notes that Marassal is spending an unusual amount of time in her bathroom. Probably scoping her medicine cabinet and tutting at all the extra prescriptions she’s not supposed to have. Not that most of them  _do_  much, but some of the stronger ones in large doses help her sleep. Or not sleep, depending on the situation.

It’s no business of his, anyways.

 

Still, Marassal eventually returns to the living room, a smug smile on his face as he watches her cuddle further into Dirthamen.

 

_Does he know?_

 

 _Not entirely,_  Marassal explains.

 

Selene frowns, tensing at the potential deception, but Dirthamens arm shifts into a more comfortable position, fingers brushing lightly against her arm and she settles almost immediately, still starved for contact.

A problem, really.

 

 _One you brought on yourself,_  Des gripes.

 

_Technically, it’s Marassals fault for faking Dirthamens death._

 

_And it is **your**  fault for handling the changing of other peoples lives so poorly._

 

_You’re being unusually upset about this._

 

_You nearly killed us, Selene. I did not follow you for so long because I thought you gave up so easily. Besides that, Dirthamen is **happy**. Have you noticed? This is the most well adjusted he has been since he was raised by Iphram and his wife. And he knows how to care for us, already. No need to fret about his discovery of our partnership, he already knows. This could be the start of a very promising idea._

 

_You’re not really suggesting we ask Marassal to raise him in each cycle, are you?_

 

_And why not? The largest problems we keep encountering are raised from his terrible family. Here is a chance to remove them from the equation entirely. No more Falon'din, or Andruil, or Mythal to deal with. No more opportunities for Elgar'nan to abuse him, for June to berate him, or for Sylaise to sneer down at him. We could save him from his biggest threats before they ever have a chance to harm him._

 

Selene hesitates. It’s certainly an idea with some merits to it…but no.

 

_We are not manipulating his life that way, Des. It is not our call._

 

_You think Marassal will not want to do this again, anyways? **He**  is happy, as well. If he has the chance to raise Dirthamen again in the future, we both know he’ll take it. All I’m suggesting is that we look the other way when he does._

 

Selene grimaces at the thought. She used to spend her free time fighting against the worst of the magisters, and now she’s discussing with a demon the possibility of repeatedly tearing someone away from their family, purposely. Because it  _suits_  them.

 

 _No, Des_. She orders.

 

He just sighs, and settles reluctantly, refocusing on Dirthamens presence while Selene drags herself back to the surface.

 

“We need to have a discussion, later,” She warns Marassal as he leans against the opening to her kitchen.

“That’s a much less threatening response than I was expecting,” he teases “I’ll be ready whenever you are.”

 

Dirthamen moves as though to get up and Selenes hand reaches out to grab his shirt instinctively.

  
He blinks down at her “I assumed you two needed privacy. It seemed obvious you did not want me here for whatever it is you are planning to discuss.”

“I want you here,” Selene strains. “Marass-Your father and I can talk later. I doubt he’s planning on going anywhere for some time.”

 

Marassal just smiles and lets out a satisfied sigh when Dirthamen resettles on the futon, and Selene readjusts so that her head is against his shoulder, and he’s in her arms again, where he should be.

 

She sighs in contentment, and idly wonders if it would be too much to ask him to move in with her already.

Des reminds her that their current home is awful and would probably make Dirthamen sick if he stays here, and Selene reluctantly agrees.

She’ll find a new place for them, then. Someplace close to his shop maybe.

Someplace new to call home.


	28. Melarue's Treasure Box

Melarue has a treasure box.

It starts out small, an old tea tin, growing with each cycle, as they gain new memories and hoard them like a dragon hoards gold. They take it with them everywhere, and hold it close when they are at their most desolate, when they have locked themselves away in a dark corner of the world where they can grieve their most recent loss.

There are some memories in their little box that they do not look at with fondness. They keep them as a warning…so that they never forget that some abominations can become monsters…

_“No one is as good as me,” Laureline laughs against their collarbone, “’Cept you, but it’s hard to beat out an old pleasure slave, right? Us field hands don’t have the inherent skill. But I’ve practiced plenty.”_

_“Well,” Melarue purrs, “I certainly won’t stop you from showing off all that you’ve learned.”_

_Laureline snickers, before her hands delve down, and Melarue’s back arches in response._

They trail their hand along a length of lavender ribbon.

_“YOU do not control ME. NO ONE controls me!” Pride roars, and the sound echoes against the walls, as Laureline steps over a prone body.  “Let them come, Deceit! Let them come and see for themselves, what an Abomination can truly do. I will kill them all.”_

They shove the ribbon further down, hidden behind old postcards and polaroids, and their finger catches on the end of a seashell.

_“It hurts,” Okri whimpers, grasping for them, hands slick with blood as he finally finds their own, and in that moment he’s simply a frightened boy whose afraid. Regret flickers in his eyes, small glimmers of a spirit already shattered and corrupting, pinpricks of mania creeping to the surface. “It hurts real bad. Make it stop hurting, Mel. Make it stop. Please.”_

It’s easier than it looks, killing an Abomination.

It isn’t about being more powerful, though that helps. But one can just as easily kill a pride demon as they can a spirit of despair, so long as you know their weaknesses. It’s always been about outthinking them, and using their natures against themselves.

It’s about catching them unaware.

They’ve seen what happens, when Abominations twist, and go wrong. They’ve seen what happens when they let their nature take over and consume them, becoming an empty vessel for a corrupted demon, rather than a partnership between mage and spirit.

They’ve seen abominations so old their minds have begun to fray, no longer certain of what they are; moments of lucidity a rare bygone between decades of confusion and fear and disconnect.

They’ve seen Abominations that claimed they would destroy the Templar order, and they’ve seen Templars that have sworn to execute them all.

They’ve seen both sides fail, and always at a cost.

They refuse to do the same.  ** _Survive_** , Deceit whispers, and they sigh, and let the darkness settle over them like an old friend.

Locked away, in the small box of memories that Melarue takes with them everywhere, are a lavender ribbon and a seashell.


	29. Olwyn

Olwyn is a very cute baby.

Uthvir is unsurprised. She is just a little thing, all tufts of hair and big, wet eyes, as they scoop her up out of her small crib. They got the call from Melarue, two hours ago. If not for the blizzard currently swamping the Denerim airport, Uthvir suspects that they would not have gotten the call at all. That they would have only learned about Olwyn’s discovery after Melarue had come and claimed her themselves.

As it stands, Melarue at least forwarded them the news article. The photograph of an Ostwick couple, holding a very familiar baby, under a headline explaining that the couple was jailed for their involvement with an anti-mage hate crime. A severe one, by the looks of things, and it would have to be in order to keep them from making bail. Though the article did go out of its way to try and slant things towards the sympathetic, citing the couple’s youth, and infant daughter, and promising careers.

It had taken Uthvir very little time at all to track Olwyn down to the home of one of her father’s cousins. Not a man with a good reputation, and the fact that they find Olwyn’s crib in a room that seems to be clear on the other side of the house from his is very… telling. The estate is larger than their own in Arlathan, and they cannot imagine situating an infant so far away. Especially with no servants or nannies in evidence for the night.

They know how many people are in this building.

They  _checked._

Olwyn looks as though she has been crying. But she stops when she sees Uthvir. She is just big enough to manage to lift herself up by the bars of her crib, although she cannot stay on her feet for very long. Her diaper smells, and her pyjamas do not look warm enough for the Ostwick night air.

They lift her up, very carefully. Making soft, soothing sounds under their breath, as she peers at them. Her hair really is sticking up every which-way.

“Hello, Olwyn,” they offer.

“Mnnuh?” she replies. “Aga da ba?”

They smile, and she settles into a truly impressive amount of baby babble. Which would be concerning, if they thought they were liable to be overheard. As it stands, they have already shut off the baby monitor, and they manage to get her diaper changed and a fresh set of clothes put on her before Fear finally starts insisting that they be on their way. They have a long flight ahead of them, after all, and they will have to cut their business meeting in Kirkwall short. The sooner they can get Olwyn smuggled safely across several borders, the better. They’ve already got a boat waiting for them, and so far as anyone knows, they are still in Kirkwall.

It will mostly be a matter of making certain no one notices them all the way to the docks.

“Nababa,” Olwyn babbles, much more pleased with her state of affairs as she is no longer wet or soiled, and has socks to try and pull off. Uthvir shushes her, letting Fear cover them as they ease their way out of the nearest window.

“Da?” Olwyn asks.

“Shush,” they try again, making their way swiftly down to the back garden. Or yard, as it happens. Serah Trevelyan does not seem to like plants very much.

“Ssss,” Olwyn parrots, happily. “Amba boo, da, bababa!”

They find themselves fighting a laugh and a growing sense of nervousness, as their little niece manages to keep up a steady babble all the way across the grounds. They keep close to the wall, as she does her level best to shove a few fingers in their mouth, and blunt their teeth just in case she succeeds. The dark covers their passage, and a couple of minutes, they summon up a bubble to try and contain the sound, too. That is trickier; but they think it works, as they set out down the back lane exit from the estate, and cut through the golf course behind it.

“Aba?” Olwyn asks them, and then blows a raspberry. They pause beneath a large tree, letting its shade help hide them, and bounce her a little bit.

“ _You_  are a very chatty baby,” they accuse, softly.

Olwyn giggles, and tries to grab their nose.

They rebuke her with a kiss to her own, and then wrap her a little more firmly into their jacket. It takes the better part of half an hour, but eventually, Olwyn’s curiosity and general friendliness seem to lose the battle with her drowsiness, and she starts to drift off. Clutching their shirt collar in her hand, as she settles against them with a sigh, and then begins drooling onto their chest.

Much better.

They set off again, moving as smoothly as they can, so as not to jostle their precious cargo awake.

It’s probably a good thing they came to get her instead of Melarue, they think. It will be hard enough for them to turn her over to Aelynthi and Victory – Melarue probably wouldn’t be able to do it, she’d end up raising the girl herself.

Olwyn snuffles her noise against them, and they pause to check on her again. Brushing a finger gently over her cheek.

They have more restraint about children than Melarue does, they remind themselves.

…They  _do._

Olwyn sleepily grabs their finger, clutching it with her own, tiny hand.

…Melarue is going to owe them for this one.

 

~

 

He should have just bought a cake.

As Aelynthi looks over the table covered in ingredients and baking utensils, he wonders why he decided to be sentimental this time around. Then he glances over at Olwyn, five years old and nearly vibrating off her chair in excitement.

That’s right, Olwyn wanted to  _bake_  the cake this year.

“Now, do you remember what this cake is for?”

“Papae issa  _secret_ ,” Olwyn stresses, holding a finger to her lips, “Shhhhhhh!” It comes out more like “thhhhhhh” as her tongue peaks out of the gap where her two front teeth should be, and Aelynthi resists the urge to grab her close and pepper her with kisses because sometimes she is just  _too adorable_.  

“Of course,” He manages with a straight face. “But we’ve got four hours to get this cake baked and decorated before your babae comes home, so we need to treat this like a very special mission.”

Olwyn nods, looking solemn, and gives him a salute, “Roger!”

By the time the cake is in the oven, the kitchen has dissolved into a battlefield.

There’s cake batter on the wall on the other side of the room and Aelynthi honestly does not know how it got there. Olwyn is practically covered in chocolate and flour and utterly delighted by it, and is content to sit on the edge of the counter for now, licking the mixing spoon while Aelynthi tries to clean up a bit of the mess.

They’d almost had a meltdown halfway through the process, when Aelynthi had informed Olwyn that no, the cake was not going to be in the shape of a motorcycle _. “But tha’s babae’s FAVORITE,”_  she’d wailed, until they’d reached a compromise and he’d promised that she could stick one of her toy motorcycles on top of the cake as a decoration when they’ve finished icing it.

He does not…he does not want to even think about what’s going to happen when they start icing the thing.

Aelynthi reaches up a hand to run through his hair and pulls away, only to find his hand covered in cake batter.

Olwyn giggles.

Olwyn is  _definitely_  going to need a bath…and so will he, apparently.

“Alright, baths, then Moana, and then we’ll ice the cake.”

“Moaaaaaaaanaaaaaaaa!” Olwyn agrees, brandishing her spoon, more batter splattering over the countertop. It takes another ten minutes to wrestle the spoon from her and wipe down the counter and start some bathwater, all the while singing the same five lines of one of the songs from the movie as Olwyn sings along.

Olwyn spends another twenty minutes shampooing his hair “gotta get clean papae!” before she’ll let him rinse it out, along with her own. Then they dry off—another ten minutes as Olwyn decides she wants to run around the house in her “birthday suit” and Aelynthi is going to  _kill_  Victory for telling her what that meant—and once he’s got her in clean clothes he turns on the movie in the living room, and goes to check on the cake.

When Victory walks through the front door a few hours later, the house smells like chocolate, and he can faintly hear the tv in the living room. He pokes his head into the kitchen to see a simple square cake covered in blue icing with neat, white letters spelling out “Happy Birthday” and one of Olwyn’s toy motorcycles taking a nosedive through the middle.

In the living room he finds Aelynthi and Olwyn asleep on the couch, Olwyn draped over his husband’s stomach, snoring softly. He bends down, and places a kiss on Aelynthi’s forehead, and Aelynthi’s brow furrows as he opens his eyes with a yawn.

“You’re home?” He murmurs sleepily.

“I saw the cake.” Victory grins.

Aelynthi winces. “Not my best work.”

Victory shakes his head, “I think it’s perfect.”


	30. Marassal Adopts Beauty

“Pretty thing, isn’t he?”

“Slender, and soft, and such pretty eyes! Like two red jewels.”

“A shame about the ears.”

“Oh no, he’s a  _perfect_  little rabbit.”

Beauty doesn’t like that word.

He’s not a rabbit, he’s an  _elf_. He reaches up unconsciously, to make sure his hair covers his ears, when someone says it. He likes to tuck the curls back when he’s drawing, but he doesn’t like it when the people come and watch through the windows. He doesn’t like the way they stare at his ears.

And he doesn’t like it when they call him that.

_Rabbit_.

A little rabbit in a zoo, one of the sisters said, when she thought he wasn’t listening. He doesn’t know why some people call it The Zoo, not till one of the older boys tells him.

“It’s ‘cuz of the big windows. Everyone comes and looks at us to see if they want to take us home. Like people look at the animals in the zoo, in the picture books.”

“Not home,” An older girl shakes her head. “People don’t get adopted from the Zoo.” She pulls Beauty a little closer, in her lap, and holds up the book so he can look at the pictures. “Do you want me to read it again?”

“No.” He shakes his head.

He doesn’t want to hear about the Zoo anymore. It makes his stomach hurt.

—

Sometimes, the people that come to The Zoo don’t just stand outside the windows. Sometimes they come inside, and talk with the sisters and Mother Marthe, and one of the children gets called back, and sometimes Beauty sees them again but most of the time he doesn’t.

He wonders where they go, if they don’t get to go to new homes.

He doesn’t want to get called. He doesn’t want someone to look into the windows and pick him. He knows it isn’t good to be pretty. The ones that are pretty are the ones the people in the windows pick.

But the others tell him he won’t get taken. Not when he’s  _special_.

They all whisper about him, because he’s Mother Marthe’s favorite. It’s why he gets to draw pretty pictures whenever he wants to, even though the other children have to go back to studying their numbers. Or why he gets to stay up later, after the bell for bedtime is rung, and he gets to sit in her big study, and eat lemon cookies.

It’s why he’s the only mage at The Zoo now. Everyone else gets taken away, when the sisters and Mother Marthe learn that they’ve got magic, or someone sees them in the window. Like Olwyn, who used to tell him stories and sing him to sleep.

He cried a lot, when Olwyn was taken.

Mother Marthe doesn’t call him ‘little rabbit’ or ‘knife-ear’. Mother Marthe calls him Beauté, and brushes his hair. The other children say it must be nice, to be the favorite.

But the others don’t know about what Mother Marthe does when he does something wrong.

—

He doesn’t meant to drop the cup. He’s tired, and he wants to go to sleep, but Mother Martha has invited him for tea and cookies before bedtime and so he has to go. But the teacup slips from his fingers and hits the polished wooden floor, and shatters into a thousand tiny slivers.

The silence stretches as Beauty stares at the broken pieces, his heart hammering in his chest, before he turns to Mother Marthe who is sitting at her desk. She’s looking at him, with her disappointed face.

She’s mad.

He curls his hands up in his lap and bows his head, “Sorry,” He whispers, “…I didn’ mean to…”

Mother Marthe only sighs, and he hears the sound of her chair getting pushed back, and then footsteps. She stops behind the couch, and looks down at the broken teacup. “It’s a shame,  _ma Beauté_ , why do you have to do things like this? You know I must punish you.”

“Please,” Beauty sniffles, “I’m sorry.” She doesn’t like it when he cries. She says it makes her feel bad about punishing him, and that only bad people try and make others feel guilty about things like that.

She makes him turn his head and look up at her, and she sighs again as she pets his hair. “I know it isn’t your fault. It’s because you’re so sinful. It’s the magic in you, that makes you do such horrid, destructive things. But that’s why I have to punish you. I have to get it all out, so that you’ll be truly perfect. I’ve got to get the sin out of you.”

Beauty swallows, and nods, eyes downcast. He wonders what she’s going to do this time. If she’ll get her cane from off its stand and hit him in the legs. Or make him sit in the bathtub before the water’s cooled down. Or hold his head under until he can’t breathe. Or maybe something not so bad, like eating soap, or sticking his hands in the freezer. 

“Take off your shoes, Beauté,” Mother Marthe instructs.

Beauty stands on the slivers for a long time. He loses count after a while, because it hurts too much to keep counting, and he has to focus on not crying. Mother Marthe reads to him, from the Chant of Light, while pieces of porcelain cut into his feet.

_“Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him._

_Foul and corrupt are they_

_Who have taken His gift_

_And turned it against His children._

_They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones._

_They shall find no rest in this world_

_Or beyond.”_

Mother Marthe pauses, and glances over at Beauty. “What does this mean, Beauté?”

Beauty blinks back the tears in his eyes, and bows his head, so she can’t see the ones that escape. “It means I’m bad.”

“ _Sinful_ ,” Mother Martha corrects. “Because your magic is an affront to the Maker. Because you are cursed. Do you think what I am doing to you now is bad?”

It’s a trick question, he thinks, so he doesn’t answer.

“What I am doing is just.” She answers, after a short period of time. “Because I am helping to cleanse you of your sin.”

“I don’t wanna be Malf’car,” Beauty hiccups.

“Shhhh, shhhh,” Mother Marthe soothes, as she reaches over, and pets his hair again. “I know, I know. You understand it’s a sin, don’t you? You understand how evil your magic makes you. That’s why I know I can fix it. I’ll get all the sin out of you, and make you perfect,  _ma Beauté_.”

He doesn’t want to be perfect. He just doesn’t want to hurt anymore.

“The Templars, they think you need to be made Tranquil, to be perfect. But your lack of will displeases the Maker. You cannot fully appreciate what He has done for you, and all that  _I_  have done for you, if you cannot feel the joy of knowing your sins are gone.” Mother Marthe tsks and leans back in her chair, closing the Chants. “That is enough for tonight. Go to Sister Noelle, and tell her that you broke a teacup and stepped on the pieces.”

That means Sister Noelle will make it not hurt as much. Mother Marthe doesn’t let him go to Sister Noelle all the time, only when he bleeds.

He likes Sister Noelle. Sister Noelle tells him he isn’t sinful. She tells him that he’s a good boy, and that she needs to talk to someone, and then she’ll have Beauty taken far away, where Mother Marthe can’t hurt him.

He leaves a trail of bloody footprints from the office to the medical wing.

—

Sister Noelle takes one look at Beauty and her smile collapses. “Oh  _Beauty_ ,” She whispers, rushing forward, lifting him quickly off his feet. He starts crying in earnest while she holds him close, because he knows she’ll let him cry. She doesn’t care if he makes ugly sobbing sounds or gets snot on her apron. She just holds him close, and it sounds like she’s crying too.

“You poor baby,” Sister Noelle says thickly, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “I’m going to look at your feet now, alright?” She hoists him off her hip and onto the examination table. The paper that covers it crinkles under him, and itches a little where it sticks to his legs.

Sister Noelle begins rummaging through the drawers, and placing things on the little tray beside the table. “I’m going to have to give you a shot, to make it all numb, so you don’t feel it when I take out the glass,” She says at last, smoothing down an errant curl. “Honey, some of the glass is really deep, and it’ll hurt if I don’t give you the shot, ok?”

Beauty swallows. He doesn’t like shots. He doesn’t like them at  _all_. But his feet hurt really bad, and he doesn’t want them to hurt anymore either. And Sister Noelle always tells the truth. If the shot is going to make it so his feet don’t hurt anymore, he  _thinks_  he can do it. “…ok…” He manages, voice small.

The shot hurts, but it’s a quick, sharp pain, and then his feet tingle for a little. And he can  _feel_  them he just can’t feel the pain anymore. He watches as Sister Noelle pulls out tiny pieces of the teacup with her long tweezers, and all he feels is pressure, like someone pressing their finger against his arm, and then a tug.

Sister Noelle starts crying again halfway through. “You don’t deserve this,” She whispers brokenly, “No one deserves this. It’s so wrong, all of it.”

“It’s cuz I’m sinful,” Beauty supplies, to try and make her feel better, “That’s why I broke the cup and why Mother Marthe punished me.”

“No, no sweet baby,” Sister Noelle shakes her head fervently, “You aren’t sinful, you’re just a child. You haven’t done anything wrong.” She swallows, “…do you want to leave, Beauty?”

“Where are we going?” Beauty wonders if it’s the park. He likes the park. He went once, with Mother Marthe, because he’d been good all week.

“Away,” Sister Noelle answers, as she continues cleaning the cuts. “We’ll go to my house first, for tonight, and then we’ll go live far away from Val Royeaux. Would you like to live with me?”

Bad things happen to the children that leave the Zoo. But that’s only when they leave with other people, right? Not nice people, like Sister Noelle. If Sister Noelle takes him, then he hasn’t done anything wrong. He thinks he’d like to live with Sister Noelle. She has a dog, he knows. She’s shown him pictures.

He likes dogs. One time, one of the Sisters found a box of puppies left on the front stoop, and they’d kept them for a week before someone came and took them away.

“Does Buttercup get to live with us too?”

Sister Noelle smiles, “Of course.”

Beauty nods, giving a small, unsure smile. “Ok.”

—

Sister Noelle wraps his feet after she puts a nice, cold cream on them, and tells him about her house. She lets him hold her wallet, with the pictures of Buttercup, while she goes into her small office and begins filling a bag with medicine and bandages.

Then she picks Beauty up, and tells him to be as quiet as he can, and wraps him up in her coat. She tells him they’re going to take the elevator—he’s never gone on the elevator, the children aren’t allowed. There are two of them, a special one that just Mother Marthe uses, that goes all the way up to her office, and one that only goes up to the fifth floor. That’s the one they’re going to go on, Sister Noelle tells him, voice barely above a whisper.

His winds his arms around her neck and nods. They’re on the seventh floor, so that means they have two floors to go.

He can be quiet, even if he’s never been on an elevator before. He’ll try really hard, and if he doesn’t make a sound, Sister Noelle promises him ice cream when they get home.

He likes ice cream almost as much as he likes dogs.

He likes that Sister Noelle is so tall, and strong, and that she can carry him even though the other sisters say he’s too big to be held now. But he doesn’t think he’d be able to be quiet, if he had to walk on his feet.  

So he buries his face in her coat, and smells her perfume, and closes his eyes as she walks down the hallway.

He doesn’t know how long they walk, when all of a sudden Sister Noelle’s hold on him tightens, and he hears her breath hitch as her footsteps slow to a stop. He turns, a bit, cheek still pressed against her shoulder, and swallows.

There are Templars at the door to the stairwell.

And Mother Marthe.

“…it’s ok, it’s ok, I won’t let them hurt you anymore,” Sister Noelle mumbles, taking a step back. She glances toward the window to her right and lets out a small sob. “It’s too  _high_.”

“Give him to me,” Mother Marthe commands sharply. “Give him back to me you  _thief_!”

“I don’t want to go,” Beauty whispers.

“I know, I know,” Sister Noelle holds him close, and takes another step back. Then she turns and bolts. He holds on as tight as he can, as she dashes down another hallway, toward the second set of stairs in the back. Beauty can hear shouting—Templars and Mother Marthe both, and Sister Noelle’s hitched sobs.

Someone grabs Sister Noelle’s hair and  _pulls_.

He’s jerked back, out of her arms, and Sister Noelle screams his name. He tries to fight, but his feet hurt so he can’t kick, and a heaviness falls over him, like someone sitting on his chest. It’s hard to breathe, but he manages to twist in their grasp and reach back for Sister Noelle.

But she’s getting pulled away by a Templar, and she kicks another in the stomach. He slaps her across the face, the way Mother Marthe hits Beauty sometimes, but he does it where it’ll leave a  _mark_. Beauty reaches for her again, “You’re hurting her!”

Sister Noelle breaks free, and runs toward him, but another Templar grabs and pushes—glass shattering, and a scream, and the night air is cold on Beauty’s face. He hiccups, and reaches for the broken window, “You’re  _hurting_  her.”

“Shut up, mage!” The Templar snaps, and lifts a hand.

“Do not touch him, you odious fool!” Mother Marthe shouts, and he’s pulled away again, and set on his feet. They hurt,  _they hurt so bad_ , as Mother Marthe’s hand tightens around his wrist and she pulls, hard. “ _You_  are coming with me. And you,” She turns to the Templars again, “Deal with this mess.”

He doesn’t fight her, as she drags him to her office. He’s too scared, and he knows he’s not supposed to. He’ll be punished if he tries to run. He doesn’t want to hurt. He isn’t bad, Sister Noelle said he wasn’t bad,  _he doesn’t want to hurt anymore._

Mother Marthe locks the door to her office, once they’re inside, and crouches down to look him in the eyes.

She cups his face with her hands, and she’s crying as her nails dig into his cheeks, not quite breaking the skin but leaving angry red marks in their wake. “Oh my poor Beauté, what am I to do with you? I have to punish you. Why have you made me do such a thing?”

“I’m sorry,” Beauty sobs. “Please don’t. Please.”

“You’ve left me no other choice. You killed Sister Noelle, and you’ve lied to me,” Mother Marthe shakes her head, “Fire cleanses all, you know this.”

“No!” Beauty shrieks, as she drags him toward the fireplace. “Please. Please.”

“You will thank me one day,” Mother Marthe assures him, as she pins him to the ground, and holds his hands out. “This hurts us both,  _ma Beauté._  But it must be done. To save you from your sin.”

Beauty lets out a terrified sob, as heat begins to blister his palm. He doesn’t remember much else, except the brightness of the flames, and Mother Marthe whispering The Chant of Light as she shoves his hands into the fire and he begins screaming.

 

~

 

It is rare these days to feel the sort of desire that made Marassal into the creature that he is today. Sure, Desire aboms still happen but not for the reasons they used to. Desires change over time in populations, what was once thought to be needed is rendered obsolete in a century or two. Though the lust for power is one of the few constants that seems to breed the truly heinous people - not just abominations.

Marassal is happy that finding the desire for freedom from evil is rare, particularly since the desire he specifically had, and still has he supposes, had been fostered since he was only nine-years-old. The desires of a child are some of the strongest things in the world, and it is partially why he always had such a hard time denying Dirthamen anything he wanted. 

But every so often, he comes across a mirror for his desire. About every fifty or so years, he feels this twinge in the back of his skull, where Desire flares up like a beacon and demands that he search out the person with the desire. It always ends up being a prostitute or someone in some form of unpleasant servitude that he helps to break free of their chains. In all of these encounters, however, he had never found a child - until now.

The desire burns bright and hot in his head and he is compelled to follow it all the way to the Chantry. His stomach rolls with uncertainty but Desire will not be denied, she must know, she must find this person! 

He slowly walks around the outside of the building only to see police tape quartering off a section in the early morning. The stretcher nearby clues him into a death, the shattered window, a fall. The Desire he feels is still aflame, burning so bright that he can feel a direct path to whoever is feeling it. But this is the Chantry, and while he is fairly powerful, even for an abomination, he must be clever. The Chantry is a giant, not unlike Aquila, so he will bide his time and figure out a plan. 

Even with the police investigation into the poor Sister’s death, the Chantry remains open for those who wish to grieve the woman’s loss. Marassal walks calmly in, keeping his head low in a reverent, mourning manner. He slides into one of the pews and assumes the proper pose for prayer. 

Marassal’s eyes flutter closed and he lets Desire out of himself on a long, winding leash. She flows through the halls of the Chantry, invisible and seeking. Where is it? Who is it? What is going on here? 

Eventually, Desire comes across a room in the far wing closed off from any prying visitors. She slips past the door and halts when she sees him. A small boy, no more than seven, curled in on himself, whimpering softly. There are bandages on his feet and his hands - 

Marassal feels the bones in his body begin to shift, wanting to elongate and turn into the creature he had been to fight Aquila. This boy, this child, he has been  _tortured._ For what? Being an elf? For being beautiful, for he can see that readily enough. But no, this is the  _Chantry_  and as racist as they are towards Marassal’s people, they hate one thing more - mages. The boy is a mage, he can feel the magic swirling chaotically under his skin, wanting to bubble out and protect him, but the fear….

Desire sinks down next to the boy, a purple wispy tendril of herself reaches out and caresses his cheek. He can’t see her, he isn’t dreaming, but he can feel her presence most likely.

_Hello,_ she greets softly, as a proper mother would.

The boy sniffles and sits up, “Mother Marthe? I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cry -

_Shhh, child, I am not Mother Marthe and I am not here to hurt you._

_“_ Wha-what? Who are you?”

_Someone who cares about you, who wants to help you._

“Why would you do that?” He asks hesitantly and she can feel some of the thoughts coming off of him. He’s been told he’s  _sinful_ , that his magic is evil and wrong. It is all that Desire can do to not flare in anguished anger at the indignation.

_Because what is happening to you is wrong. And because you want it to stop, yes?_

_“_ Y-yes,” his voice is barely audible in the affirmation and Desire sighs, caressing his cheek once more.

_I can send someone to come get you, save you from Mother Marthe. You are not sinful, da’len, you are a mage and there is nothing wrong with that._

_“_ But-but the Chant -

_Says that magic is to serve man and not rule over him. But where in that does it say just having magic is wrong? It says that you must be careful with magic, not that you shouldn’t have it. Mother Marthe is wrong_.

The boy blinks, and Marassal knows that it is a lot to ask for him to suddenly change a view that has apparently been beaten into him. 

_What is your name, da’len?_

_“_ Beauty,” he whispers, making Desire sigh.

_And all of you is beautiful, your magic is as gorgeous as you for it is a part of you. Do you want me to send someone to come rescue you?_  She asks again and he nods.

_I will do that then. Stay safe, da’len, help comes swiftly._

Desire touches his forehead and runs some healing magic to help with the process on his hands, dulling the pain, before allowing herself to be pulled back into Marassal. His claws have lengthened and darkened, and he’s fairly certain his eyes are a conspicuous shade of purple. But he has survived this long like this, he can leave easily enough.

He leaves the Chantry swiftly and returns to the small apartment to begin planning. He does not know this Mother Marthe, so it makes planning a bit more difficult, but he figures that she is like most evil people who harm children in this manner. Self-absorbed, hateful, self-righteous, and completely convinced she is doing the right thing. 

_Aquila_.

No, this is not Aquila. This is Beauty’s struggle, the focus is on Beauty, not on a life Marassal destroyed long ago. 

The plan is simple enough - sneak into the Chantry at night, find Mother Marthe, slaughter her. Not just kill, for creatures like her do not deserve the respect of just being killed - slaughter is much more appropriate.

He drinks a vial of lyrium to give him a boost before setting out that night. The cobblestones are still warm from the sun, and the moon is only beginning to shine brightly. And yet Marassal slinks easily through the shadows and into the broken window in the Chantry. He wonders if the Chantry understands just how many demons it attracts due to the actions of its Mothers, Sisters, Templars, and even Clerics. Pride, Desire, Fear, Despair - all common visitors to the esteemed halls of the Maker and His Bride. And of course, there is Marassal.

He lands on his feet and strides through the halls, head raised high in his ill-gotten Brother robe. The Templars pay him no mind as he makes his way to the room where he suspects Mother Marthe is. It is the largest room of the building, reserved, he guesses for the Revered Mother. It would explain her self-righteousness a bit, though not to the degree where she would mutilate a   _child._

Marassal quietly opens the door, slips inside, and shuts it closed. The air is wet and he smells soap - ah, she’s taking a bath, how nice.

“Revered Mother,” he calls, “I have come to confess my sins.”

There is loud sloshing and movement in the adjoining room before a very put out looking woman peaks around the corner.

“These are private quarters! You cannot -

Her voice cuts off as Marassal smiles, his eyes purple, fangs sharp, the claws on his hands long and deadly.

“For you see, Mother, I have been very sinful.”

Before she can scream, Marassal is there, shoving her against the wall, pinning her there with the wings now sprouting from his back.

“Shhh, screaming will only make it worse for you, and trust me, I want it to be worse for you, you abusive piece of shit.” He drags a claw down the shell of her ear, sighing.

“You see, Mother Marthe, your Maker is a false god. There are no gods, but there are demons and spirits, and many of us do not take kindly to child abuse.”

She begins to murmur the Chant of Light to herself and Marassal rolls his eyes.

“Look, Mother, you abandoned your faith the minute you laid hand on an innocent child. Do not seek forgiveness or atonement now when your fate has been sealed. Hark! And look upon your doom, and know that you have fallen from grace and into the clutches of a demon.”

Murder tends to make Marassal poetic, particularly murders in the Chantry under a full moon. Hmm.

He tears into her, wings and claws rending bits and pieces from her. Ears, fingers, her hands, feet - all of them flayed from her as she screams, but lo. No one will hear her. He’s put up a silencing barrier, she is alone in her death, in her suffering. It is only after an hour of peeling bits of her off one by one that he finally allows her to die. 

When she is at last dead and in scattered pieces, Marassal is also quite the mess. So he quickly bathes himself and dresses in whatever spare robes he can find. He’ll burn this when he gets to a safe house with Beauty. 

He leaves Mother Marthe’s remains and returns to the room where he had seen Beauty earlier through Desire. He is resting, quiet, and peaceful, but they don’t have much time. 

Marassal lays a gentle, no longer clawed hand, upon Beauty’s shoulder. The boy wakes immediately and flinches away from Marassal’s touch. 

“Oh dear, I am so sorry to cause you fright,” he whispers to the boy.

“Who-who are you?”

Marassal smiles gently, “I am the help that was promised. Now we must go, there isn’t much time.” He holds his hand out, hoping for Beauty to take it.

“Where will we go?” Beauty asks.

“Far, far away, where no one will ever hurt you again.”

Beauty waits one moment more before tentatively taking Marassal’s hand. 

It is a rush to leave the Chantry and make it to the get-away car Marassal has waiting a few blocks over. There is food and supplies awaiting them for the long journey they have to Rivain. He thinks Beauty will like Rivain, full of odd but reverent magic, where Seers still practice their trades even if the Chantry disapproves. 

He supposes he will need to call Dirthamen after this and alert him that he has a new little brother. 

 

~

 

Marassal drives until he sees sunlight. Beauty is curled up in the backseat, asleep with a blanket tossed over him. The morning light trickles into the car rousing the boy. He pokes his head out of the blanket and seems confused by his surroundings before recalling the night.

“Good morning, little one,” Marassal says softly, “are you hungry? Need to use the bathroom?”

Beauty nods slowly and Marassal exits off the highway to look for a place to eat. Ah! An old diner, perfect. Marassal pulls in and helps Beauty out of the car. The poor thing doesn’t have any shoes though.

“Let me check the trunk, I’m sure I have sandals or something,” Marassal mutters as he walks around the car to rummage around for sandals. He comes up with some of Dirthamen’s old shoes. They’re a little big, but they’ve got adjustable straps on them. When he gets back to Beauty, he carefully unwraps his feet and hisses at the injuries.

“I will never understand why people have an urge to hurt children,” he murmurs before summoning a great swell of healing magic. His hands glow brightly and Beauty flinches back.

“No! No magic! It’s bad!” He says, crawling back into the car.

“Beauty, I’m not going to hurt you. This is healing magic, I promise. It’s  _good_.” But Beauty is having none of it, he doesn’t want it near his body so Marassal eases off of it and returns to the trunk, pulling out the first aid kit.

He disinfects the cuts and gently applies antibacterial crème. He wraps his feet with new gauze then sets to help the boy’s hands. Burns are not easy injuries to heal even with magic. But Beauty doesn’t want the magic, and while it pains him to see Beauty in pain, Marassal respects Beauty’s wishes. There are burn pads in the kit, but they’re not for hands and fingers, but for arm or leg burns. Still, Marassal makes do and wraps Beauty’s hands as well.

He fits the shoes as gently as possible onto Beauty’s feet, making sure to not tie them too tightly. He sets the first aid kit aside then picks Beauty up and places him on Marassal’s hip. Marassal closes the door, locks the car, and heads inside. After a moment, Beauty leans against him and something in Marassal clicks.

_We have another son_ , Desire coos. She wants to wrap herself around Beauty like she did with Dirthamen sometimes, showering him in love and affection but Beauty is older, warier, abused not unlike Marassal had been. He requires a gentler touch, so they restrain themselves.

“Why hello there! Just two?” The hostess asks and Marassal nods.

“Just two,” he confirms. They take a seat in a squeaky booth with bright red leather seats and a tin table. The hostess hands out menus, including a coloring sheet and crayons for Beauty. He doesn’t immediately go for the drawing, even though he eyes it.

“Do you like to draw?” Marassal asks and Beauty nods.

“My hands hurt,” Beauty whispers, his eyes darting away. He expects retaliation for the admission. Marassal bites his tongue, replaying Marthe’s murder in his head.

“That’s okay, they’re not fully healed. I’ll get you some medicine to help with it, okay?” He offers and Beauty blinks at him.

“Thank you, ser.”

“Please, call me Marassal.” Marassal smiles as sweetly as he can and turns to the menu. The hostess returns with coffee and Marassal asks for an apple juice for Beauty.

“They have pancakes, Beauty, would you like those?” Marassal offers but Beauty just blinks.

“…Pancakes?”

Marassal replays the murder again in his head while he explains what a pancake is.

“It’s a little flat cake you can have for breakfast. Normally they come in stacks, each one is sorta thin, like this thick,” he holds up his fingers to demonstrate.

“They’re soft and sweet and you can put all sorts of things on them. I like mine with powdered sugar and strawberries.” Marassal shows Beauty a picture of the pancakes in the menu and his face lights up.

“May I have them?”

“Of course, does anything else look good?”

As it turns out, there is very little that  _doesn’t_ look good. There are crepes, bacon, sausage, eggs, Orlesian toast, eggs – he wants to eat so many things and Marassal is very tempted to order everything. But he knows better, Beauty is going to fill up and will feel bad about not eating everything.

“How about we order a tall stack of the regular buttermilk pancakes with the assorted syrups, a fruit bowl, a cheese omelet, a few slices of ham, a slice of Orlesian toast, aaand hash browns?” It’s still a lot, but Marassal can pack it away if he needs to, and it’s enough to give Beauty a big sample of food.

“That sounds really good,” he says, “thank you.”

“I’m glad.” Marassal gestures for the server and gives her their order. She stares at them for a minute before nodding and heading off. He’ll make sure to tip her and the kitchen well before they leave.

The fruit arrives first. Marassal helps feed Beauty since his hands hurt. He nibbles on the strawberries and cantaloupe but shows a clear preference for the blueberries. Marassal makes a note to make blueberry pancakes sometime in the future.

When their food arrives, Beauty’s eyes widen and Marassal gestures out at the table full of food.

“Everything the light touches is yours.”

Beauty looks up at him like he’s grown another head. And while Marassal could theoretically do that, he knows he hasn’t. That’d be way too much for Beauty to handle right now.

“Lion King not big with the Chantry, okay then. What I mean is, if you want to try something go for it, or let me know and I can help you.”

Beauty doesn’t move. Ah, well, this was going to happen sooner or later. Marassal takes one of the free plates and starts putting bits and pieces of all the food they got onto it. Some pancake, some eggs, ham – he sets it before Beauty and tells him that it’s  _his_  plate.

Marassal begins to pick at his own food when out of the corner of his eye, a little wrapped hand reaches out and grabs a piece of pancake. Then grabs another and another.

Pancakes are a success then.

The ham, not so much.

The eggs are harder to eat with his hands so he focuses on the things he can eat by picking things up with the very tips of his fingers. He nibbles on the Orlesian toast but ends up going back to the pancakes to devour them. Marassal conspicuously puts more pancakes on Beauty’s plate with a dollop of syrup. That starts a whole messy affair of syrup and pancake eating.

Marassal eats the rest of the omelet, Orlesian toast, and hashbrowns while Beauty fills himself with pancakes and fruit. By the end, Beauty is terribly sticky and he clearly feels uncomfortable. Marassal picks him up carefully and they head to the bathroom where Marassal carefully cleans the boy up.

“Syrup is one of those things that tastes so good, but man oh man does it make a mess.”

“I’m sorry,” Beauty says softly. Marassal bites his tongue and smiles sweetly.

“There’s nothing to apologize for, I’m not upset,” Marassal clarifies and some tension leaves Beauty’s body. He holds his face up for Marassal to clean and then comes the delicate work of cleaning his hands. The clothes…well, those were going to go anyways. Beauty sniffles and Marassal apologizes for the pain. He wants to use his magic, oh how he wants. But…Beauty needs him to not, so he restrains himself. Restraint, restraint.

He picks Beauty back up and they head back inside, pay the waitress and leave a hefty tip before heading back out to the car. Beauty sits in the back, strapped in and safe while Marassal thinks of what he wants to do next. He’s still not completely comfortable with the distance they have with Val Rayoux, but he also wants to buy some new clothes for Beauty. At least some that will tide them over until they make it to Rivain.

And while Marassal does have children’s clothes stocked at the nearest house he has, not touched since Dirthamen was small, Marassal wants Beauty to have his own clothes – not hand-me-downs. He needs to understand that he is his own person, he has autonomy in things, and having his own clothes is an important part of that.

Marassal compromises by driving for a couple more hours, stopping again when he spies signs for a Target. Perfect. He takes the exit and Beauty perks up to peer out the window.

“Where are we going?” He asks in a small voice.

“Would you like some new clothes, Beauty? Clothes all your own?” Marassal asks and he sees Beauty’s eyes widen in the mirror.

“All my own?” He asks in a small voice.

“All your own. No one can take them from you,” Marassal promises and Beauty nods slowly.

“I would like that very much.”

“Wonderful! Because we’re going to get you clothes all your own.”

Marassal navigates traffic then pulls into the Target parking lot. It’s big and bright and still early, so there aren’t many people there but Beauty is excited, eyes all wide trying to get a better view of the store. Like before, Marassal takes him out of the car and holds him on his hip. But this time, he puts Beauty in the main part of the cart and pushes it inside.

By how Beauty’s eyes widen and his head swivels, one would think they had just walked into the world’s greatest candy store. They pass by the purses and bathing suits, heading towards the kids’ sections. Marassal walks slowly through the sections, paying careful attention to where Beauty’s eyes linger. If he looks at something for a long time, Marassal picks it up. They pull ten items before heading to the changing room to try them on.

The attendant’s brow furrows at the dresses but she doesn’t say anything as she hands them a number and lets them back.

“Do you want me to help you, or no? It’s okay, I won’t get mad either way,” Marassal tells him. Beauty worries his lip before reaching up and taking the clothes, disappearing behind the door.

“Okay, let me know if you need help.” Marassal leans against the wall and takes out his phone, lingering over Dirthamen’s number. He needs to call, but there hasn’t been a good time. Him and Selene are finally stable, and this…it’s not like he wants to impede on anything Dirthamen and Selene have going on, but there is this fear that she’ll make him give Beauty up.

_I rescued him._

_Like you rescued Dirthamen?_

He presses the home button and puts the phone back in his pocket. It’s not the time and he is uninterested in getting into with Selene over the phone while Beauty is so close. Beauty doesn’t need that, doesn’t need to hear shouting and anger.

Marassal waits patiently while Beauty tries on all the clothes. When he finally comes out, he looks sheepish at having made two piles.

“Which ones do you like?” Marassal asks. Beauty points to the pile with two of the dresses, a pair of jeans, and a sweater. Discarded are mostly ill-fitting shirts. Marassal puts the no items on the rack without fuss and puts the ‘yes’ items into the cart.

“Alright, you still need some shirts and some pajamas.” They return to the kids’ sections and blow through, getting smaller shirts, another dress that is the same as one he likes already in another color, a skirt, two pairs of shorts, two more pairs of pants, and two sets of pajamas.

Beauty disappears back into the dressing room and Marassal palms his phone again.

This wasn’t like Dirthamen,  _at all_. Beauty is a completely different case, he didn’t take him from parents, he just…violently adopted and liberated him. He worries his lip, remembering the other children there. Hm.

He pulls out his phone and texts out the details of the Chantry to an old friend. She’s always up for this sort of thing. He can’t be around her so much because of the risk of corruption of who she is, but…this is something she can do.

_Those poor things! I will see what I can do._

He smiles at his phone and tells her about Beauty – all in the old language of course, to prevent any prying eyes from understanding.

_You’ll be good for him, then, very understanding. If he needs me, just let me know._

Marassal smiles and sends back a list of happy emojis.

Beauty comes back out of the dressing room, again with two piles but the ‘no’ pile is significantly smaller and Beauty is smiling.

“Great job!” Marassal coos, putting the clothes where they need to go. Marassal puts Beauty back in the basket and notices how he holds his hands. He must have overworked them from putting the clothes on.

Next up, shoes. It’s difficult right now to properly try anything on, but the store thankfully sells some more traditional softer elven style shoes that lace up around the ankles and have soft soles. Beauty can’t really walk in them, but the traditional shoes are gentle enough that Marassal is sure that they’ll work until Beauty’s feet heal and they can go shoe shopping properly. He adds it to the cart and moves on.

They head to the pharmacy section and he grabs burn packs, lots of children’s Tylenol, Neosporin, gauze, and large bandages. He also picks up some toiletries for Beauty, including shampoo, conditioner, a toothbrush and toothpaste, soap, lotion for his dry skin, and a couple of fun face masks because he deserves to have some fun too.

He’ll take Beauty toy shopping once they get to Rivain and they can do a great haul. In the meantime, Marassal thinks he can give Beauty his tablet and show him the games and things he can do.

They check out and Marassal makes sure Beauty doesn’t see the cost – children don’t need to see such things when they’re already upset. They come away with many things, all of which Marassal stashes in his trunk.

“Do you want to put one of your new outfits on?” Marassal asks and Beauty nods.

“Yes, please.”

“Which one?”

“The grey dress with the hood, please?” Beauty asks and Marassal takes it out of the bag, passing it to Beauty. He lets him change in the backseat and contemplates calling Dirthamen again.

_Not the time, later,_  Desire reminds him. Right. Later.

Beauty opens the door and gives Marassal his clothes, which get unceremoniously tossed into the trunk. Marassal hands Beauty his tablet and shows him how to watch movies and play various games.

“You can watch anything in there in the KIDS folder and all the games are good too,” Marassal says, showing him the folder. Beauty watches and holds the tablet carefully, as if it’s the most precious thing ever. Marassal straps him in then heads back to the driver’s seat. Back to the highway.

_Aristocats_  starts playing and Marassal smiles. It will do.

Desire expands in him and she slinks back to spread some of her energy over Beauty. Just little magic to encourage his healing process. They can feel the prickling of Beauty’s own magic, strong but repressed, so,  _so_ repressed.

Marassal can work with that, though. And Rivain has maintained a unique magical identity that will allow for natural expression of magic. Mages are seen as part of the landscape there, not so different from a skilled worker. The Veil there feels less like a heavy curtain and more like a bride’s thin veil that can be cut and sewn to the wearer’s preference. Precise tears and holes happen sometimes, to be sewn up with something special by the caster.

He could give Beauty headphones, or cast a noise barrier so he can call Dirthamen. But no, that would be inappropriate.

He sighs and controls himself. It’s just he misses his eldest son. He hasn’t visited much in the past two years, mostly just at holidays. It is clear to Marassal that Selene would rather he not linger, and he doesn’t want to get between them and their happiness. He wants Selene to be happy almost as much as Dirthamen, and he knows that his presence can be stressful for her.

Marassal figured it was best if he did not linger where he wasn’t wanted.

But he can hear it in his head.

_You’re replacing Dirthamen._

To which he replies vehemently,  _NO._

Having a second child is not meant to replace the first, and Dirthamen is grown, he’ll understand. And hopefully he’ll welcome his new little brother with an open heart.

He didn’t steal Beauty. He helped him, he  _wanted_ to be helped. The desire to be free, blooming in him so true that Marassal was called to help. It’s not like Marassal doesn’t want to call, he just…he doesn’t know how it’ll be received and he’d rather not expose Beauty to any potential negativity while they’re in this tentative stage.

They drive up into a small town at dusk and pass through a drive through window for chicken fingers and fries before heading to a house Marassal keeps here. It’s a nice little renovated cottage only a couple hours outside of the city Dirthamen and Selene live in. He’s spent most of his time here the past two years, close but far enough away to not suffocate Dirthamen’s life or to make Selene uncomfortable.

He pulls into the driveway and helps Beauty out of the car.

“What about the food?” Beauty asks.

“That will be for trip number two, but you come first,” Marassal says. He slides the key into the door and opens it, shuffling into the living room –

To find Selene and Dirthamen sitting on the sofa. Dirthamen looks up in surprise while Selene’s gaze snaps immediately to Beauty.

“Who is this?”

“Father, I –

“Marassal?”

“I can explain –

Everyone starts and stops at the same time. Dirthamen’s gaze finally lands on Beauty who shrinks in Marassal’s arms. Marassal sighs and turns to Beauty.

“How about I show you where you’ll stay tonight, okay? I’ll bring in your food and you can watch TV and play on the tablet or do anything you want in your room while the grownups talk about boring grownup things?” Marassal asks. Beauty hesitates, moving in closer to Marassal and away from Selene and Dirthamen, unsure of how to react to them.

“Okay,” he says in a tiny voice. Marassal levels a very level look at Dirthamen and Selene before retreating down the hall to a pretty little guestroom. He sets Beauty down and gestures at the TV and hands him the remote.

“You can do anything you want with this. Even throw it. I will not get mad or upset or anything. This is your room now, that is your TV. I’ll go get your food.”

He dashes quickly to and back from the car with the bag of food, dropping it off for Beauty.

“I am so sorry I have to leave you right now, but I want you to know  _it is not your fault._ Whatever you hear  _is not your fault._  You have done  _nothing_ wrong, I am so happy to have you here, alright? There is a bathroom on the other side of that door, so if you need to go, just head right on in, no need to ask or anything. But if you need anything, please ask.” Marassal gently smooths Beauty’s hair down and kisses his forehead. He already loves the boy, already bonded, but he knows better than to try and force Beauty to feel anything in response. If Beauty uses Marassal for all he’s worth until he’s an adult and ready to be off on his own, it’ll hurt, sure, but that’s Beauty’s choice and Marassal will live – he always does.

Marassal closes the door gently and places a ward over it so that Beauty won’t be able to hear anything past it, but Marassal will still be able to hear if Beauty suddenly needs him or something. He turns and heads back to the living room.

It doesn’t look like Selene or Dirthamen have moved a muscle for the last ten minutes while Marassal got Beauty settled.

Selene levels a long stare at him and says one word, “Explain.”

Marassal takes a deep breath and sits down on a plush chair, “I was in Val Rayoux. It was a spur of the moment decision to see the city, taste the chocolate, see the canals, you know. And while there, I came across this Chantry, though it really shouldn’t be considered that. There was an exceptionally abusive mother, Beauty was favored by her. She demeaned him, tortured him, taught him that he was sinful simply because of his magic.”

Selene’s eyes flash purple and Marassal bares his teeth in acknowledgement.

“I could hardly standby and allow such atrocities to continue. So I killed the mother and rescued the boy. There were several other children who are now also being rescued by an associate who is very skilled in this area.”

Selene leans back, apparently mollified by his answer. But Dirthamen’s eyebrows draw together.

“Why didn’t you call? Val Rayoux is more than a day’s drive away.”

“I…was unsure of how’d you react, to be honest. That and there was never an appropriate time to call. I wanted the call to be private but I could hardly leave Beauty alone.”

Dirthamen nods but the tension doesn’t leave his body. Worry worms into Marassal, making him reach out to his son.

“Dirthamen –

“Are you adopting him?” He asks and Marassal nods

“Yes, if he wishes to stay with me, then I want to adopt him.” He keeps his voice and face soft, almost falling to the floor to get Dirthamen to look at him but his eyes are fixed on a point on the rug away from Marassal’s face. He remains still, this is just how he works with his stress, he knows, but it’s unsettling to know  _he_ is the cause of the stress.

“I have a brother now.”

“If you so choose. You’re an adult, you have the ability to choose here and I will not deny you that.” It would be difficult if Dirthamen is unwilling to be around Beauty, no doubt, lots of…not seeing Dirthamen for the next decade. But as painful as it would be, Marassal wouldn’t begrudge Dirthamen for choosing it.

“But whatever you choose, and you don’t have to choose right now, know that this is not to replace you in any way. I love you, my dear boy. You have brought light to my world and I will always love you, nothing could change that.” He tucks a stray hair behind Dirthamen’s ear. He’s remains still, processing and tense.

“You haven’t been around much.”

“I…I wanted to give you and Selene room to be together. But this really isn’t about me, it’s about Beauty. He needs a loving home and I can provide that, and he has undergone things that are similar to things I have experienced, I can help him.”

After a long silent moment, Dirthamen raises his head and lets out a long breath.

“I have a brother now,” he says.

Selene bites her lip.

Marassal chooses to ignore her, “Yes. And for what it is worth, I think you’ll get along eventually. He’s a very sweet and intelligent person.”

“I’m twenty years older than him,” Dirthamen says and Marassal nods.

“Yes.”

There’s another long pause and Desire reaches out towards Des.

Dirthamen takes a deep breath and faces Marassal.

“I don’t like that you haven’t called in months. I don’t like that you have distanced yourself for seemingly no reason. I have asked Selene to try and I am going to ask you to try too. I love both of you and I do not like this.”

Marassal blinks and Selene looks down at the floor.

“Is this why you’re randomly in my house?” Marassal asks and Dirthamen nods.

“Yes, because I knew you were staying here but then you weren’t here.”

Oh.

He’s…not been very good about this whole situation, has he?

Marassal stands out his seat and crosses over to the sofa. He wraps his arms around Dirthamen in a hug and strokes his hair.

“I wanted to give you space to grow, to discover life and love, I am sorry I miscalculated. I should have talked to you about it. I should have talked to Selene about it. I didn’t want to mess things up, I’m sorry,” he whispers. Dirthamen holds onto him and leans against him.

“Thank you. I was not expecting to have a brother tonight.”

“If it helps, I was not expecting to give you one either,” Marassal chuckles.

“Is he going to live here?” Dirthamen asks after a minute.

“No. We’re going to Rivain, as far away from Orlais as we can get. And the Chantry.”

Dirthamen is silent for a long moment before turning to Selene.

“Would you like to move to Rivain?” He asks. Her eyes widen and she glances at Marassal before pursing her lips.

“I think that is a discussion for another time,” she says and Dirthamen nods.

“That’s reasonable. Would Beauty be up for meeting us tonight?”

“I am unsure. I can ask him,” Marasal says. He pats Dirthamen’s head then bends down and kisses his forehead before heading back to Beauty’s room. He knocks before cracking the door open.

“Beauty? It’s just me, can I come in?” He asks softly.

“O-okay,” a sniffly voice answers. That isn’t good. Marassal opens the door wider to see Beauty sitting in the same place on the bed. The chicken fingers have been nibbled at but the TV isn’t on, there is barely anything mussed on the bed. And Beauty is  _crying_.

“Oh honey, what happened? What’s wrong?” He asks, coming over to kneel at Beauty’s bedside. Beauty takes in a great sniffle and wipes his face.

“I-I’m sor-sorry.”

“It’s okay to cry, I’m not upset, not in the least. Can you tell me what’s upsetting you?”

He nods but doesn’t say anything, just sniffles and begins to cry more freely. Marassal takes a seat on the bed and pulls Beauty in for a tight hug, holding him close to his chest. He strokes his hair and coos softly while he cries.

It takes several minutes, but eventually Beauty begins to relax and lean against Marassal.

“I don’t want to go back,” he says so quietly that Marassal almost doesn’t hear him. His arms tighten for a moment in reflex. No, Beauty will  _not_ go back.

Marassal leans back looks Beauty in the eyes, “I promise you, I will never take you back there.” Some tension leaves Beauty’s body but he still seems unsure. Marassal can feel the desire of wanting to ask questions, and the restraint preventing it.

“You can ask me anything,” Marassal encourages.

Beauty avoids his eyes and glances to the door, “Who are they?”

“The man is my son, Dirthamen, and the woman is his wife, Selene. They’re very nice.”

“You have a son?” Beauty asks. There is…fear and worry inside of him at that.

_He is worried Dirthamen will not like him?_ Desire supposes which seems logical.

“Would you like to meet them? They would very much like to meet you. But if you’re not up to it, they’ll understand.”

Beauty thinks about it for a moment, only to pause to yawn against his will. He’s probably too tired from all the travel and the excitement from the last thirty or so hours. Meeting people, family…it’s a lot to ask for.

“How about you meet them in the morning when everyone has had a good night of rest. I’m sure Dirthamen and Selene would like that too, it’s been a very big day.”

“Are you sure?” Beauty asks, promptly yawning again.

“Very sure. Let me just change your bandages then get your pajamas and you can go to sleep. There is plenty of time tomorrow, da’len.” Marassal kisses Beauty’s forehead and stands back up. He dashes once more past Selene and Dirthamen out to the car, grabbing pajamas and all the medicine and bandages.

When he returns, Beauty is already curled up on the bed, fighting the urge to fall asleep. Marassal is quick with his bandages, but gentle as he rubs in the elfroot salve. He helps Beauty change into his pajamas then tucks him into his bed. He kisses his forehead once more and wishes him a good night before switching the light off and leaving the room.

Exhaustion seeps into him. The energy it took to kill Marthe, driving all through the night and the day, the drama waiting for him…

He heads back into the living room and sits back down in his seat.

“Beauty is exhausted. You can stay the night and we’ll introduce everyone in the morning over breakfast.” He runs a hand through his hair, his body feeling distinctly far from the rest of him. He recalls the lyrium he took before and now its price is rearing its ugly head.

Dirthamen looks disappointed but Selene remains as she did – stoic. She is in hiding mode, he’d bet, unwilling to add any influential emotions. It’s fruitless though, Desire Abominations are creatures of emotion, holding them back is like trying to damn an ocean.

“Beauty is sensitive right now, we need to accommodate him and his wishes. He’s had very little autonomy,” Marassal explains. He moves closer to Dirthamen and gently takes his hand.

“Dirthamen, I love you, nothing has changed between  _us_.”

“I understand. I’m glad you rescued Beauty. But perhaps call in the future? I was concerned.” There are bags under Dirthamen’s eyes, and stress lines at the corners of his mouth. His hair hasn’t been brushed probably since he got up over fifteen hours ago, and there are rumples in his clothing. He has never been particularly vain, but the apparent exhaustion and strain is out of the norm.

“It appears my eldest also needs sleep. I’ll show you to the guest room you and Selene can stay in.”

It’s a small room, just large enough for a queen bed and a dresser, but thankfully no one is expecting to stay here for long. Marassal closes the door and feels his energy drop even further. His bones ache, his teeth feel like they’re rattling in his head and Desire is riled up with no energy to put to it.

Lyrium, it’s…not good for you.

He drags his body into the kitchen and begins to rifle through whatever it is he has. Nothing. He cleaned out before heading to Val Rayoux, thinking he’d be there for longer than just a few days. But he has ice. And medications both legal and otherwise.

He rummages through a cabinet full of various herbs and pulls out his stash of elfroot and his old wooden pipe. Good, good. Help the nerves and the chills.

“Really? Drug use just after putting your newly adopted son to bed?”

He almost drops the centuries old pipe at Selene’s voice.

“It’s  _elfroot_ , it’s medicinal,” he drawls.

“Does it even affect us?” Selene asks.

“It does the way I make it,” he replies, packing his pipe. He turns around to see her vaguely interested. He can see the shadow of a tail, swaying back and forth in mild agitation.

Really? He has to deal with this now? Ugh.

He gestures for her to follow him out to the small patio in the backyard. He switches the light on, pulls up a chair, then lights his pipe. Smoke puffs out of his mouth and slowly his body begins to relax.

“I took lyrium to handle the woman torturing him,” he says without preamble.

“That was stupid.”

“Mhm. I ripped her to shreds, took Beauty, and high-tailed it out of there. His feet are…his hands…” he struggles for the words, only emotion seems to pour out of him. Desire swirls inside and passes the small memories of Beauty’s hands and feet to Des.

The reaction is instant. Her eyes flare purple, and he thinks that maybe his rose bush is incinerated now, but it happens so quickly that there’s nothing he can do.

“And you have not healed him?” She asks in a low tone.

“He is uncomfortable with magic and prefers the slow method of healing. I know, I hate it too.”

He focuses on his pipe for several minutes before Selene speaks again.

“Are you certain this is not to replace Dirthamen? I know what it feels like to need to fill the nest so to speak.”

Marassal blinks then shakes his head, “No. Not at all. And no one could ever replace Dirthamen, you of all people should know that. Is having a second child supposed to replace the first? No.” He scoffs at the idea and returns to his pipe.

“The timing is suggestive, is all,” she replies. Her tone is softer and he suppose she’s just trying to make sure he isn’t recklessly doing this. Not like the nearly disastrous sudden investment in tree houses for cougars. Selene is reasonable, she’s experienced with children, far more so than Marassal is admittedly. He leans back and blinks slowly at her.

“Do you have any advice?”

She stops up short, “For what? Parenting?”

“Yes. I’ve only raised Dirthamen, you’ve raised many children over the years. They’ve all been lovely sorts, all with different personalities and temperaments – really the only constant is  _you_ , so you must be doing something right.”

She freezes and the air flickers with tense energy, her eyes becoming very deep and almost glassy for a moment. But then she lets out a long breath and reaches for the pipe.

“You said this affects us?”

“Yes, it’s my own blend – ookay, going for it. I respect that, treat yo self,” he says as she begins to drag on the pipe. Her eyes flutter and her body begins to relax.

“Shiiiit.”

“Be careful, darling,” he says affectionately. Her aura gets a little more purple and her horns curve out from her head and her tail sneaks out. He raises an eyebrow at her as she relaxes or attempts to at least.

“What  _is_ this stuff?” She wonders.

“Elfroot, royal elfroot, and demon weed. The demon weed acts as an immunosuppressant for people like us so the elfroot can take effect.”

“That’s brilliant,” she replies, going in for another hit.

She avoids looking at him as she blows smoke out through her lips. He supposes he can wait for another time to ask her about her parenting, how she’s managed to do so well each time. None of her children are cruel, mean-spirited people. Even her abomination children – good people. That’s impressive.

They fall into a surprising companionable silence, smoking the pipe for an hour before heading back inside. He puts the pipes away and ushers a relaxed Selene to Dirthamen’s room. Marassal returns to his own room and passes out into a blissful sleep.

**

_Beauty is awake_ , Desire says in a not so soft and quiet voice in his head. Marassal harrumphs and momentarily nuzzles back into his pillow. It’s too early.

_It’s nine._

Damn. Not even early.

_Selene and Dirthamen are also awake._  Desire informs him helpfully. She is entirely too cheery, but they are a parent again. Desire has always had a soft spot for children. Sometimes Marassal wonders what she was before she was Desire. Motherhood? Are there spirits of Motherhood? She doesn’t talk about it, even after all this time of being together.

Marassal drags his body out of bed then quickly moves to make himself presentable. It’s a messy bun day, that’s just how it is.

His first stop is Beauty’s room. He knocks softly, asking permission to come in.

“Okay,” a sleepy Beauty says. Marassal steps inside to see his new son still ensconced in his blankets, rubbing at his eyes. The bandage on his left hand has come loose and Marassal sets to taking care of all the bandages. There is healing but Beauty hisses and winces at the pain.

“Selene and Dirthamen are already awake, we can all have breakfast together. And later we’re going to get on a little plane and fly right over to Rivain – does that sound good to you?”

Beauty nods and yawns, “Are they coming with us?”

“Not today, no. Just us. But they are very excited to meet you.” The burns look bad and he worries they’re not healing properly.

_Deeeesss?_ He calls in his head.

_Selene and Des are out getting groceries,_ Desire responds instead. Hmph. Well, he’ll ask Selene to look at it when she gets back. They may have to use magic just to make sure infection doesn’t set in and Beauty ends up unable to use his hands. It wouldn’t bother Marassal if he couldn’t use his hands, of course, but the loss would always be tied to Mother Marthe and Marassal wants to get as much distance from that time in Beauty’s life as possible.

He bends down and presses soft kisses to Beauty’s hands, willing them to get better.

“We may need to heal your hands with magic, little one.” He tells him. Beauty clams up but he doesn’t flinch back before.

“Magic won’t make it worse?” He asks in a small voice. Marassal blinks. Did…did they not even say that magic can  _heal_?

“No, magic can heal. There are mages who specialize in making their magic heal other people. Magic doesn’t have to hurt or be bad, the mage controls what the magic does, not the other way around.”

He should have burned that chantry to the ground, should have killed the Templars, the complicit mothers and sisters who would ever allow such abuse and lies to damage the children.

No. That…that is wrong. People like Marthe wrap everyone around their fingers and play them like instruments. But still…no one stopped it. No one thought to do anything before it got horrendous. Where were the authorities?

Who do you call when the authorities are the people allowing this to happen?

_Us?_ Desire supplies and Marassal supposes that’s true. It’s how demons are summoned, how they’re born, how they continue to exist in a disproportionate number compared to spirits.

“Mother Marthe said –

“Lies, da’len, all she said were lies. Magic is not inherently anything – it is what the person wielding it makes it. A good person can make good magic. A bad person can make bad magic. A sleepy person can make sleepy magic. If you are good – you can make good magic,” Marassal says softly. He holds up his hand and tiny lights dance around his fingers. Beauty retracts his hands but he doesn’t flinch away.

“What about sin?” He asks in a barely audible voice. Marassal blinks.

“What about it?”

“Mother Marthe said I was sinful and that’s why I had to be punished.”

He plays the murder in his head again, quickly calming himself. He smiles as sweetly as he can.

“Oh honey, no. No, no, no,  _no_. You are a child, you have done nothing sinful, ever. Okay, we’re going to try something okay? I want you to repeat after me. ‘I am good.’”

Beauty pauses and shifts uncomfortably, but he eventually speaks in a small voice, “I am good.”

“’I deserve good things.’”

“I deserve good things.”

“’I can do good things.’”

“I can do good things.”

“’I deserve to be happy.’” Marassal concludes.

“I deserve to be happy.” Beauty repeats, his voice soft but that’s okay. They’ll build it up. Marassal has him go through it two more times, deciding that they’ll do this each morning three times. Something to remind Beauty that what he learned, what he was forced to believe was wrong.

Marassal finishes fixing Beauty’s bandages, helps him into the bathroom, then they head out to the kitchen, Beauty secure in Marassal’s arms. Marassal deposits Beauty on the chair he was sitting in last night and goes to fetch Dirthamen. Judging by the running water, he guesses that his son is washing dishes.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Marassal coos.

“Good morning. Selene’s out getting things to make breakfast,” Dirthamen replies. He shuts the water off and dries his hands off.

“That is excellent. Beauty is awake if you would like to meet him,” Marassal offers. Dirthamen nods and allows Marassal to walk him back into the living room. Beauty has curled up on the chair, appearing entirely too small for a seven-year-old. Dirthamen pauses for a moment and Marassal watches him. But after a moment, Dirthamen strides forward without his father and sits on the couch.

“Hello,” he begins, “I’m Dirthamen.”

Beauty blinks and shifts so his hands and feet are hidden, “Hello. I’m Beauty.”

Dirthamen pauses then smiles, “I’m happy to meet you.”

“Really? I mean, thank you,” Beauty says. An awkward pause stretches before them before Dirthamen tries again.

“Do you like books? I own a bookstore, you could come by whenever you like,” Dirthamen offers. Beauty bows his head.

“I know the Chant. I haven’t read a lot of books.”

“That can be good. Exploring genres can be fun. I have read many books so I can help you find things you like. There is a nearby bookstore that has many children’s books that you may enjoy. Some have mages as the main characters.”

“Are you a mage?” Beauty asks and Dirthamen nods.

“Yes. So is Selene, and Father. And I hear you are too?”

Beauty slowly nods. “I didn’t think it was good.”

“Father likes to say that if you make your magic your friend it helps.”

“He said that if I’m good, I can make my magic good.”

“I think that’s right, there are bad people who don’t have magic, good people who do have magic. I don’t think it’s magic that makes someone bad.”

Marassal watches his sons try to figure out themselves from afar, smiling and feeling his heart swell with pride and trepidation. Dirthamen will be a good big brother, and Beauty will benefit from having someone like Dirthamen. Calm, steady, unassuming.

The door rattles open and Selene strides in, several plastic grocery bags hanging from her arms.

“I come bearing food!” She declares. Beauty pops his head up over the back of the chair and Selene stops to see him.

“Hello, there.”

“Hi.”

“What kind of breakfast do you like?”

“Pancakes,” he replies and something in Marassal’s heart clenches just that teeniest bit.

“Pancakes it is!” She declares, heading for the kitchen.

Selene and Marassal take to the kitchen, cooking up pancakes, eggs, and all the other goodies Selene managed to grab for breakfast while Dirthamen and Beauty continue their get-to-know each other situation.

“I want them to be happy, just like any other parent,” Marassal says. Selene stops and she turns to him.

“Why is my approval so important to you?”

“Because I want Dirthamen to be happy. I don’t want friction between us, he is integral to us both now,” he tells her. She crosses her arms and stands still for a moment before letting out a long breath.

“Alright. Fine. But you need to get better at communicating, you’re part of a family now and that means talking to us when stuff like this happens. Or when you feel like you’re being shut out. Families talk.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“Sometimes families do that too, but you know what else families do? Love each other and figure it out.” She pours batter into the pan, turning from him. Fighting. Why fight? The shouting and the accusations. His ears itch just at the thought of it.

“You and Dirthamen never fought?” She asks after a moment. Marassal shrugs and continues to tend to the bacon.

“Not particularly. There were discussions every now and then. He did not like to adhere to proper bedtimes, he would stay up reading with low lights. I got frustrated a bit since it’s not good for his eyes. But mostly I just gave him everything he wanted.” He flips the bacon, holding a small barrier over it to avoid the spit.

Selene nods, flips a pancake, “That explains a few things.”

“He’s a nice boy.”

“I’m not saying he’s not. But it’s more than just the two of you now. It’s Beauty…and me, I guess. So  _call_  and talk to us when stuff happens.”

It’s a little silly how happy it makes him to hear her call him family. A knot he was barely aware of unties just a bit inside of his and he is so moved he turns and wraps and arm around her.

“You’re a lovely daughter-in-law,” he tells her. She freezes for a moment then gives him an odd look before returning to making pancakes.

“There’s a first for everything, I guess.”

They finish making breakfast together, putting it all together and taking it out for the new brothers to dig into. Marassal tries to tap into some of Beauty and Dirthamen’s desires for food to spur his own with mild success. He nibbles on fruit regardless, to appear at least somewhat normal.

Beauty struggles to feed himself with his hands and Dirthamen is there immediately, even before Marassal, holding out a forkful of pancake for him.

“Beauty says he wants to try the magical healing after breakfast,” Dirthamen informs them. Selene and Marassal smile and it all seems to click into place. His ears don’t itch, his heart doesn’t clench, and there’s no knot in his stomach – this is what he has wanted for so long. Desire that he had no name for. He drinks in the resolution in, the completion. It fills him with a warm power, from his toes to his fingertips.

After breakfast, Selene and Marassal sit in front of Beauty and carefully unwrap his hands and feet. Selene’s face goes stony but Marassal can feel Des’s recoil.

_Shit._

_The woman who did this is very dead. Very, very dead._  Desire supplies.

_Good._

Selene first shows Beauty her magic in the form of little light then moves to begin working on his left hand while Marassal takes the right. Beauty shuts his eyes against it while Dirthamen assures him he is doing well.

They manage to remove much of the necrotic skin, whispering powerful healing spells to spur the skin to heal. When Marassal reaches down, he makes a point to draw a claw on his palm – using his own blood to power the healing. A small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things. When his hands are pink with new skin, they turn to his feet. It’s a slightly different tactic. Scars are different on the feet, only the deepest of them really stay, and even then, the skin is shorn off so much with the wear and tear that they don’t linger like they do on other parts of the body.

Still, Selene and Marassal take care to heal the cuts, cleaning them as they go. By the end, it’s not perfect and he still needs to wear bandages, but it’s a marked improvement.

Beauty cautiously stands up, testing his fresh feet out. When it doesn’t hurt like it did, he smiles and wraps his arms around first Selene and then Marassal for a long time.

“Thank you, Papae.”

Marassal’s heart stops for a moment, “Papae?”

“Dirthamen said we’re brothers now and you’re his father so I just thought….” Beauty stammers and Marassal holds him even closer.

“Papae is perfect. Oh my darling son.”

He hoists Beauty up into his arms and holds him close, breathing him in. His son, his second, perfect son. They’ll make it all work, they’re all family after all.


	31. That Lifetime Uthvir Got Pregnant Thrice

One of Uthvir’s best and hardest lifetimes is the one where they give birth to all three of their daughters.

Best, because Uthvir gets all three of their daughters with as few outside complications as they have ever managed to achieve.

Hardest, because it means that they manage to be pregnant three times in ten years. Which is inadvisable, they learn, no matter how many times they’ve managed to survive it before, or how desperately they want their children. Fear never really seems to ease up on the matter, and Uthvir never gets used to the feelings of vulnerability, not even when they tell themselves that they  _know_  what is coming and what to expect.

It’s a good lifetime to learn it in, though.

Thenvunin is wealthy again. Purely by chance - Mirena is a businesswoman rather than a fashion designer, but she seems to excel at this career as well, and she still sews as a hobby. Nadas is not in the picture - according the Thenvunin, he does not even recall his biological father. His stepfather is a fussy, soft sort of fellow, who dotes more on his own children than on his stepson, but not by a wide enough margin for Uthvir to consider it a Problem. Thenvunin  _adores_  being an older brother, anyway, and makes his living a child physiotherapist, of all things. Uthvir doesn’t find him again until he’s in his mid-thirties, and then it’s more that Screecher finally manages to track him down across the continent, and Uthvir follows..

That is the downside to this life, really. Not that they meet later than usual, no, but that by the time Uthvir finds Thenvunin, he’s already met Sethtaren again. Married him and been widowed by him, and suffered through a relationship that Uthvir would desperately like to somehow annex from any and all of his lifetimes.

They date him for six months, before they take him to bed. And then they worry that they are too ardent, that they say too much, too soon, that they go too far in loving him. Feeling him. Drawing his pleasure from him and whispering promises to his ears, but, when morning comes Thenvunin is still wrapped up around them, and when he bursts into tears they can tell it is the healing sort, rather than hurting kind.

They cannot hold back in how much they love him, after that. Cannot disguise it. But it seems to be what he needs anyway, so after a while, they stop trying.

They get engaged at the end of the year, and marry the next winter.

The winter wedding suits Thenvunin, though Uthvir has yet to find a season that does not favour him in some way. He wears a pale blue and white gown, with so many crystals that the coordinator has to carefully position the lighting, so as not to blind anyone in the pews. Uthvir feels a little stunned, in the midst of it all. Struck by the fact that Thenvunin is… is Thenvunin. Every time. Even with all the different variations, all the lifetimes and shifts in his story, he is still himself. Still the man they love, who loves them back..

Sometimes Uthvir wonders if they are being manipulative without meaning to. Surely they must be, to make him fall for them so often? Must be abusing their knowledge of him, even though they try not to. Try not to assume. Try not to do anything that would cause him harm, or fear, or shame.

By the time they are exchanging vows, their stomach is in knots. They feel nervous, and giddy, and worried, and… well.

Like they are getting married, they suppose.

It never really does lose its edge.

The honeymoon is a long one. Things are stable, comparatively, and safe. Times have eased into another golden age of sorts - that’s what the current generations seem to think, anyway. In Uthvir’s eyes its really just more of a quiet downtime between conflicts, that grants people enough breathing room to finally devote their attention to other things again. But maybe there really isn’t much difference. Technology, which had taken a downswing in the past century - mostly thanks to the destructive nature of warfare - is recovering back up to the level it had enjoyed before. Thenvunin wants to go to the a renowned beach in Rivain that is full of interesting birds.

Thenvunin likes watching birds, and Uthvir likes watching Thenvunin watch birds, so it all works out, really. The hotel is also very nice. Private, and expensive, and easily secured. Some days they don’t actually get outside to do any bird watching, but Uthvir doesn’t precisely feel bad about it. Not even when Thenvunin huffs and calls them  _insatiable_  and insists that they are ruining his schedule - he never keeps a cross expression for long, and Uthvir has long given in to the fact that they find his insincere complaints very endearing.

And then the subject of children comes up.

Thenvunin wants them. Had wanted them for years, had even been considering just adopting on his own before Uthvir found him. They want their children, too, but they hesitate.

It’s always so hard. To have them again, and then to lose them again. In the end it rarely changes their decision, but it always makes them hesitate. Like approaching a hot flame, and knowing it’s going to burn. Knowing the kind of pain it will bring, intimately and terribly. But still knowing that they are going to stick their arm in it. Again and again.

Probably every time.

They buy another couple of years of child-free marriage. Mostly by stating - truthfully - that they want some time to just enjoy being married. But they know Thenvunin worries that they don’t really want children. That they’re going to put it off and put it off, that they’re going to talk him out of it, deny him something that he wants so badly without even doing him the courtesy of telling him so. They don’t know if Sethtaren had deliberately manipulated this aspect of his relationship with Thenvunin, but they know the two had gotten married when Thenvunin was nineteen, and that Sethtaren had died when Thenvunin was twenty-seven, and that no children had come about. And they know left to his own devices, Thenvunin is usually a parent by his mid-twenties.

Besides which, part of them worries about where their daughters might already be.

Part of them is tired of waiting to see them again.

So, they go for it. Uthvir had not thought it would be possible for Thenvunin to be  _more_ solicitous than he generally already tended to be, but somehow, he manages it. Despite them never really mentioning it, he seems to figure out that they’ve done this before, and that… well. That Uthvir has lost at least one child. Like with most things about their past, they don’t really try and hide it from him, but they also can’t bring themselves to just explain it all, either. Fear shuts them up when they even entertain the notion, and on this, Uthvir lacks the reserves to contradict it.

Thenvunin doesn’t pry, though. Instead he sets about a monumental campaign of fussing, that leaves Uthvir slightly dizzy from affection. It proves a very good distraction, at least. Uthvir retreats into fortifying their new home, and Thenvunin decides not to take any new clients for a while, which cuts his workload in half after a few months. They manage one another’s insecurities. Uthvir childproofs everything and rearranges all the furniture and insists that Thenvunin always drive at least a couple of miles under the speed limit, even when they’re not there. And Thenvunin redecorates the nursery six times and redoes the garden three times and invites his mother over for what Uthvir has begun mentally referring to as ‘tea and frantic advice’ at least once per week.

Between the self-indulgence and the overall calmness of the world, Uthvir manages to make it to their third trimester without feeling too awful about everything.

But then then discomfort settles in. Their mobility becomes hugely impeded, and their insomnia becomes harder to balance against their body’s need for rest, and their worry about the baby’s development. They have no idea if this baby is Kel or Eda or Virevas or none of them, and they take to pacing in the early mornings, consumed with dire scenarios and restlessly uncomfortable.

The fifth time Thenvunin catches them at it, he starts waking up early to catch them on purpose. Sometimes he scolds them. But usually, mercifully, he just coaxes them back to bed, where he sets about rubbing his hands over whatever part of them they’re comfortable with having touched, and whispering assurances in their ear. That everything will be alright. The baby’s fine, Thenvunin’s fine, Uthvir’s fine. He tells them to focus on the moment, and they know it’s his therapy training but it  _works,_  so they suppose that’s not a bad thing.

“Breathe in,” he says. “Breathe out. Everyone is safe right now. Nothing bad is happening right now. You’re just in bed, with me, and I’ve got you. You don’t have to do anything else or be anywhere else. Just rest. I’ve got you.”

Uthvir thinks that if anyone else tried this, they would just roll their eyes and go back to pacing. But they don’t want to disappoint Thenvunin, so they try. And when they  _try,_  they find that they can, in fact, redirect their attention away from thoughts of the past or future, and just focus on what they have right at that moment. Which is Thenvunin’s voice and warmth, his hands moving across their skin, the wall to their back and the swell of their stomach safe between the both of them.

“I’m not very good at being pregnant,” they admit, ruefully.

Thenvunin kisses their forehead.

“Nonsense,” he insists. “Considering how hard it is, I think you are doing brilliantly.”

Uthvir thinks love has addled his senses, but they decide to kiss him instead of telling him so.

Labour is a trial. Selene is a country away, letting Des drive, and Melarue has dropped off the map again. Uthvir thinks they might be brooding in Arlathan’s inner cities, but they’re honestly not sure. And Eda has been… gone, for a while, which means that there are no other aboms around to help mitigate things. It isn’t the first time that’s happened, though, and Uthvir knowing what to expect has helped to quell some of the worst of Fear’s tendency to panic during labour. But they still have to fight to maintain their calm, and keep from giving themselves away.

Thenvunin holding their hand helps. They can’t squeeze too hard or they’ll break his hand. It give them something to focus on, beyond everything else. A simple thought to anchor things with. They can’t freak out too badly, or else they’ll squeeze too hard, and then they’ll hurt Thenvunin. So they have to stay calm, and just focus on their breathing, and the pain, and what they can feel of their baby.

Their baby, who comes with what is, technically, an ‘easy’ birth. Uthvir hears her cry and nearly rips her out of the doctor’s arms, has to thank everything for Thenvunin’s presence because Thenvunin takes her much more gently, first, and holds her where Uthvir can see her, while the healers do their work. She’s small and her face is still squished from birth, but as soon as she’s out Uthvir recognizes her without a doubt.

Kel.

Baby Kel.

She looks different, being born genetically from Uthvir and Thenvunin. She still favours some genes that Uthvir shares with their cousin. Still has her dark skin and her brown eyes and the same nose. But there’s a certain tilt to those brown eyes that makes them think of Thenvunin’s, now, and her hair is more dark brown than black, and Uthvir thinks there’s something of Glory in the bow of her mouth.

Of course, very little of that’s immediately apparent when she’s a newborn. And either way, she just looks like Kel to them.

They bring her home the same day she’s born, because Uthvir has no desire to linger in the hospital, and there doesn’t seem to be a need to, either. Thenvunin drives so slowly, Uthvir  _almost_  tells him to hurry up. But they don’t. Instead they focus on glaring daggers at anyone who honks at them, while they sit in the backseat with Kel.

Who Thenvunin decides to give the same flowery, over-long name he usually does.

Uthvir cries.

They can’t help it. They have their daughter back and their husband back, their family is coming together again, and they are so frightened but so happy, too. They hold Kel and tell Thenvunin the name is perfect, and don’t even manage to joke about the length of it as they press kisses to their daughter’s head. Thenvunin wraps his arms around them and fusses at them, holds them like they’re made of glass, before they lean into it; and then something inside of him seems to relax, too.

Another thing that never loses its edge - watching Kel discover the world again.

She is a little less shy this time around, but not by much. As she gets bigger Uthvir sees her make familiar faces again. Find her voice again. They watch her assess things with her solemn little look, and watch her break into peals of laughter whenever she finds something new to delight in. The first time she giggles so hard that she falls over, Uthvir feels another knot in their chest slowly start to loosen. One day it will clench back up again. But for now -  _for now_  - they can keep her safe and hold her close, and listen to her breaths evening out as she sleeps, and look forward to the day when she can talk to them again.

Thenvunin buys the most beautiful chest sling for carrying her around, too. Soft, Dalish make, pale yellow and blue, and so comfortable that Uthvir catches him napping with it on more than once. Kel snuggled up to his chest, safe and sound and drooling contentedly on him.

They take an insane amount of pictures. Record an unreasonable degree of video. But never while they think they might miss out on actually experiencing what’s going on, either.

Their second pregnancy isn’t…  _technically_  planned.

When Kel is two, Thenvunin starts tentatively floating around the idea of adopting. Uthvir is leaning towards it as well, so they have a few conversations on the subject. Start looking at adoptions, as Uthvir also starts covertly looking for signs of Eda, or for other  _particular_ children who might be in need of a home. But they’ve barely started their search when Thenvunin gets a request from a hospital in Kirkwall.

So they put things on hold, and Uthvir braces themselves for taking their daughter to That City. No matter how much time passes, there is always something about Kirkwall that just invites disaster. It isn’t always a bad place, but it’s a place that draws in Events, and Uthvir has been enjoying this current lifetime’s worth of quiet. Thenvunin wants to go, though, to help a little girl with the same condition he was born with, and Uthvir can hardly begrudge him that.

The trip takes a full year. Kel is three, and Uthvir hasn’t really gone back to work since she was born, and doesn’t feel at all inclined to leave her in someone else’s care in Kirkwall, either. They do some odd jobs from home, but not many. Most of the time they reserve their focus for securing their rental apartment, and for taking Kel on little expeditions around the city. And for making sure that Thenvunin has some emotional support at the end of the day, because this job can be taxing on him, and this case in particular often makes him somber and vulnerable. A raw nerve wrenched open by a little child’s struggles, and the limits of what help anyone can offer.

Fortunately, Kel hardly minds being hugged to death by her Papae as soon as he comes home. And when she gets squirmy and tired of affection, Uthvir is more than willing to let Thenvunin rest in their arms, and watch her play with her toys on the living room floor.

That first month they hit a dry spell in the bedroom. Thenvunin has the opposite of his usual issue, for once, and after coming home exhausted and upset by his day, has trouble getting aroused. It makes him incredibly anxious and needlessly apologetic, but Uthvir honestly doesn’t mind. They still get to hold him and touch him. He doesn’t mind it, so they indulge in it. Cuddling him close and doing for him what he had done for them, when the worst of their fears kept surging up during pregnancy. They rub at his back and promise they don’t mind, that it’s not even a thing  _to be_ minded, and even though they absolutely miss having sex, they don’t press the issue. They are still intimate, and Uthvir has two working hands and an active imagination for when they really want to get off.

The second month, things seem to reverse gears entirely. In hindsight, Uthvir should have noticed the oddity of it. The almost ritualistic quality, the coincidental moon phases, the fact that Thenvunin had been stressed in  _many_  past lives but had never had erectile dysfunction before the age of fifty before. But at the time it just seems to be one of those bumps in the road of life, and Thenvunin is so  _happy_  when he finally gets it up. His erection presses against their thigh as they tangle together in bed, and Uthvir lets out a small sound of triumph, while Thenvunin presses his burning face to their pillow.

“Thank the gods, I thought I was going to have to see a specialist,” he says.

Uthvir rolls him over, and rocks their hips against him.

“So it  _was_  just the stress,” they muse. They had, of course, considered some kind of medical condition, but under the circumstances, stress seemed to be the likeliest culprit. Especially since Thenvunin insisted that nothing else was wrong.

He sighs and runs his hands down his face, and then swallows as Uthvir brushes up against him again.

“Well it certainly wasn’t  _you,”_  Thenvunin assures him, for what must be the thousandth time. Uthvir takes it as the apology it is meant to be; the first time it had happened, Thenvunin had gotten so self-conscious that he’d snapped at them that they must be doing something wrong. The turnover between that and him trying to take it back had been so quick, Uthvir hadn’t even felt the barb hit. They know him well enough by now to know when he’s projecting, anyway - though it still hadn’t been his finest moment.

“I forgave you,” they remind him.

Thenvunin looks up at them, and rests a hand on their hip. He’s quiet for a moment, as they stroke him. But then his breath hitches, and he gestures them down for a kiss.

“I’m still sorry,” he says. “Although I think… I might be able to make it up to you…?”

He nudges his hips upwards, and when Uthvir moves off him a little, rearranges his legs so that he can wrap them around Uthvir’s waist.  _Leadingly._  Offering, and while Uthvir would stay with Thenvunin forever even if he decided he never wanted to have sex with them again, they are also very glad to take his invitation. They thrust up against him, letting their cock slide against his, and then fumble with the bedside table as best they can without letting him go.

The first week of that month, they celebrate Thenvunin’s renewed vigor with their usual dynamics. No one has any complaints, although there are still a couple of nights where Kel wakes up and Thenvunin all but launches himself off of the bed and refuses further sex for the rest of the night, ‘just in case’ - that, however, is a very typical hazard of their family life, and one which Uthvir understands.

On the weekend, though, while Kel is sleeping soundly and the monitor is quiet, Uthvir is just about to pin Thenvunin down when he switches his own grip on them, and rolls himself on top instead.

“Let me,” he requests.

Uthvir nips his ear, and acquiesces easily. Expecting the gentle kisses and sweet compliments, the slow way Thenvunin presses inside of them, and stubbornly insists on setting a glacial pace. They pull him closer and growl his name, and are gratified when that gets him to go a  _little_  faster. Holding them tight and calling their name as he spends himself inside of them.

They are surprised, though, when he makes the same move the next night. And then a third. On the fourth night, they ask about it, and Thenvunin gets flustered and worries that he’s  _pressing too much,_  and Uthvir sets about reassuring him. To spectacular success, it seems, because when they dig their nails into his biceps and breathlessly plead with him to go harder, he actually does.

The night after that, they maintain the lead again. But they take him inside of themselves once more, and ride him instead. Indulging in the sight of him spread out beneath them, compromising as they pin him down but still let him in. Thenvunin comes three times that night, and when they finish he is so boneless that they  _almost_  want to roll him over and spread him open. But something in them doesn’t mesh well with the idea, even going so far as to get a little queasy at the prospect. They chalk it up to not wanting to feel like they’re taking advantage, and settle for just spooning him while they rest.

And then somehow, Uthvir manages to go more than a month without changing shape. It only occurs to them that it’s been too long when they start to feel nauseous, and worry that they’re about to have a menstrual cycle.

Instead they end up emptying their stomach into the toilet, feeling their gut revolt in worry as much as anything else.

Abominations don’t get flu viruses or stomach bugs. They get poisoned, but generally speaking, that either works or it doesn’t. Uthvir speeds through a mental list of possibilities, as Fear spikes upwards, whispering other, less likely ones. They review their symptoms, and flash back to their early pregnancy, and at once feel like they have found the least horrible answer, and have unlocked a potentially terrifying development. Because they had thought their birth control was foolproof.

Kel pushes open the bathroom door while Uthvir is still reeling over the possibilities.

“Na?” she asks.

Uthvir snaps back to reality.

“Yes, Baby?” they ask, wiping away some of the water they had splashed on their face, and turning their attention to her.

“We go do a’sabox?”

Right, yes, the park. Uthvir promised they would take her to the park. The one with the sand box Kel liked, and a playset that was suitable for small children.

“Of course, we just have to finish getting ready,” they promise, and get back to the business of seeing to that.

While they’re out, though, they stop in a local drugstore, and buy a few pregnancy tests. The clerk offers them a knowing look which they don’t appreciate, but also smiles and waves at Kel, so Uthvir lets it slide. They get daughter and purchases back to the apartment without any further catastrophe, and while Kel takes her midday nap, they watch a line of tests process their urine on the bathroom counter.

Six positives later, the tests are in the garbage, and Uthvir is at their computer, trying to figure out why in hell they’re pregnant when they definitely didn’t plan to be.

By the time Thenvunin comes home, they don’t have any answers. They try and box the matter away, to work out later, but Thenvunin takes one look at them and his brow knits in concern, and he drops his work bag at the front door.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

They should probably get a doctor to confirm it before they tell him.

“I’m pregnant,” they somehow say anyway.

Thenvunin looks shocked. And then he stares at their midsection, until Uthvir folds their arms. At which point his eyes snap back to their face, and he moves as if to head straight for them. One hand outstretched, until they notice the telling tremble in his fingertips.

They barely manage to catch him in time, when he faints.

It’s a brief one, at least. He drops, and then almost as soon as they’ve got him, he snaps back up again. Pressing his hands to them, until Uthvir gently dissuades it.

“Did I just faint?” he asks them.

“Yeah, babe,” they confirm.

He closes his eyes, and then silently rolls them upwards and tilts his chin, in a gesture they’ve come to recognize as meaning, in this life, ‘fuck whatever god designed my ridiculous self’. Or something to that effect. It’s not one of Uthvir’s favourite quirks of his in this life, given their general fondness for his ridiculous self. They think he might have picked up from his stepfather.

“What a silly thing to do,” he says out loud, and pulls them both back up, as if to make up for it. Uthvir takes his hand, and he examines them worriedly again. “But how could…?”

“Well, you see Thenvunin, when a person with a penis ejaculates inside of-”

Thenvunin gestures quellingly at them, as he starts glancing worriedly around.

Uthvir gives him a flat look.

“She’s drawing in her room,” they say. “Really, Thenvunin, a little credit?”

“It’s  _reflexive,”_  he says, half apologetic, half defensive. “And you’re being facetious anyway. You know that’s not what I meant.”

They let go of his hand in favour of folding their arms again. It’s possible they might be… snapping. A little.

Both of them might be.

“…I don’t know how it happened,” they admit, which isn’t their favourite sentence in the world. Especially when Thenvunin’s just asked them something very important.

They haven’t started sabotaging themselves, have they? Subconsciously? Because they  _do_ want… but, that would be a disturbing violation of Thenvunin’s trust in them, too. Not to mention of their trust in themselves. A few conversations about adopting are not the same as agreeing to another pregnancy, after all, and definitely not  _now_ , while they’re in Kirkwall and Thenvunin’s dealing with a stressful job, and Kel hasn’t even started school yet. They don’t even know where most of the rest of their family is in this round, either.

Uthvir runs a hand down their face.

Thenvunin is quiet for a moment. But when he reaches for them again, and they lean into it, he pulls them close, and buries his face in their hair.

“Oh,  _Uthvir,”_  he says. “We’ll figure it out, I promise.”

And they do, in the end, figure it out.

Because there is a sudden upswing in pregnancies - welcome and, more concerningly,  _un_ welcome - in Kirkwall. Which eventually leads to the revelation of a cult practicing fertility rituals in the tunnels of Old Kirkwall, which ends with a good deal of arrests and an even higher number of lawsuits. Anti-magic proponents get up-in-arms, but are forced to die down a little when it becomes clear that none of the ritualists are actually mages - just members of an odd gender essentialist movement, which had figured out how to manipulate some old wards put into the city a few hundred years ago. Reportedly, their intention hadn’t actually been to knock up every sexually active and reproductively compatible couple in a ten block radius, but their actual aims were somehow even worse.

Uthvir very badly wants to leave Kirkwall, then. This place is cursed, something  _always_ happens here, and they don’t trust that it will limit itself to just the  _one_  thing happening, either. But Thenvunin can’t bring himself to leave his job early, and Uthvir also can’t bring themselves to ask him to, knowing what it is and why. They struggle between their choices. They don’t want to leave Thenvunin here alone, but they don’t want to be pregnant in this city, and they don’t want to have Kel here, either, and they didn’t plan for this pregnancy, but they don’t want to get rid of it, either.

What would be worse, they wonder? Being pregnant in Kirkwall, with a three-year-old depending on them, or being pregnant somewhere else, without Thenvunin to help them? Knowing  _he_  was here without  _them?_

Fear doesn’t even take long to help them decide that one.

They brace themselves for facing down Kirkwall whilst pregnant.

“The parents are going to take a job offer in Ostwick,” Thenvunin tells them. “They don’t want to stay here, either.”

“Oh thank fuck,” Uthvir sighs, sagging against him.

“They wanted me to extend their apologies for any inconvenience,” he adds.

“Send them a fruit basket,” Uthvir murmurs from the general vicinity of his chest.

Ostwick is  _infinitely_  more manageable than Kirkwall, even if the people and facilities there tend to be more elitist and snide. The odds of a demon rising up from under the floorboards and trying to kill everyone are significantly lower. Uthvir can work with that. They dig into their emergency funds - this qualifies - and invest in an actual house. Not a rental property. They can resell it at a loss if they need to, but Uthvir absolutely wants a place where they can dig in some advance wards and be  _absolutely sure_  of what’s happening around the property.

The fact that they get a garden big enough for Thenvunin’s birds and Kel’s sandbox is purely incidental, of course. Uthvir distracts themselves by hiding treasures in the sand for Kel to dig up with her little shovel - and figures out quickly to make sure they’re deep enough that Thenvunin’s birds don’t beat her to them - in between finishing their wards and cordoning off the kitchen, so that Kel can’t wander in while they’re handling the remodeling there.

Thenvunin likes the house more than they expect. He picks out most of the furniture for it, and putters around the garden, and even makes noises about cleaning out the attic and turning it into a bird room. And Kel loves her room and loves her sandbox even more. Uthvir counts the venture a success - even if it’s only temporary. They would prefer Thenvunin and Kel to be happy in every place they live, no matter how short or long.

Uthvir doesn’t worry that Thenvunin is getting  _too_  attached, however, because he does also suggest inviting over one of the pediatricians from the hospital. Who is, apparently, in the market for a house to accommodate a growing family of his own. Uthvir agrees easily enough - a set buyer for when they leave Ostwick would be  _very_  handy, and Thenvunin hadn’t managed much socializing in Kirkwall.

They are absolutely not expecting him to bring home  _Elgar’nan Evanuris,_  however.

Uthvir has to go through the process of mentally recalibrating everything to deal with the factors of reincarnation, while Thenvunin shows Elgar’nan around, and they talk shop about the children at the hospital and Thenvunin’s case in particular. Elgar’nan beams jovially at Kel and offers her a candy, and only the fact that Uthvir has never met an incarnation of the man who actually  _harms children_  stops them from dragging him out of their house.

They know, from some of Selene’s accounts, that Elgar’nan can be… quite different, in certain lifetimes.

Unlike the man’s eldest son, who has thusfar batted a hundred on the asshole incarnations sheet.

Kel trots over to them and shows them the candy first, anyway, and doesn’t eat it until Uthvir gives her the all-clear. Good girl. It took some trial and error to figure out that the trick to this was to make sure she knows that they will give her replacement candy if they have to take one away, but they have it down fairly well by now.

“Do you have any children, Dr. Evanuris?” they manage to ask him, when they finally sit down to dinner. Delivery, of course, because the kitchen only has a microwave at the moment, which is good for hot dogs but not quite up to Thenvunin’s standards for guests. Thenvunin cuts Kel’s portion into smaller pieces for her, while Elgar’nan beams and produces his phone.

“I do,” he says.

Uthvir finds themselves presented with a photo of Elgar’nan, his arm wrapped around an unfamiliar man, with three equally unfamiliar children arrayed at their feet.

“Adopted, of course,” Elgar’nan explains, beaming in unabashed pride. “Though we are considering a surrogate for our fourth!”

Uthvir nods, and lets the man show him a few more pictures. A chubby baby in a veritable mountain of stuffed toys. Two toddlers playing in the bath. A video of Elgar’nan’s husband and preschooler singing off-key at one another in a minivan. Typical family fare, that Uthvir offers bland sentiments over, while they do some mental calculations. Elgar’nan’ doesn’t look like he could be much older than Thenvunin. Timing shifted on him, then. That happens sometimes. They’ll have to tell Selene that they found him, and that he doesn’t have Dirthamen - at least, not yet - which probably won’t help her with her turtling-into-Des issue. But at least now they know that people don’t need to have the same parents in order to turn up in a cycle.

Thenvunin, not to be outdone, immediately starts producing pictures and videos of Kel. Which has Kel scooting over to watch, too, as she’s at an age to be  _very_  interested in seeing herself in videos and images.

Eventually, though, dinner ends. Elgar’nan leaves with the blunt statement that he likes the house, but he still wants to keep an eye out for something bigger in his price range. Uthvir attempts to shrug the incident off - these things happen, when you’re immortal - and once the man is gone, they go and scoop up Kel and decide to watch some television with her nestled firmly at one side, and Thenvunin ensconced at the other.

“You didn’t like him,” Thenvunin observes.

“I don’t like most people,” Uthvir replies, hedging. “And he seemed like the type to try and pat my stomach without permission.”

“I suppose he is,” Thenvunin concedes, and then lets the matter drop.

Ostwick, though, while lacking Kirkwall’s particular brand of drama, seems intent on creating new waves of its own.

Five months into their pregnancy, Uthvir decides to set Kel up with swim lessons. She usually likes them, and they’re good for her, and it always helps them sleep a little better when they know they’ve reduced her odds of coming to harm. So they shop around and find a suitable pool offering suitable classes, and let Thenvunin help Kel pick out a swimsuit while they get her waterwings and find goggles that won’t hurt her face.

The first day of classes, though, falls on a day when Uthvir is feeling particularly disinclined to leave the house. Their back aches and their skin itches, and Fear keeps asserting itself over every little thing. They take Kel anyway, of course, but they also put on as many layers of clothing as they can reasonably manage, and linger at the poolside rather than going in.

It means that they have to crouch down to help Kel, but she’s toddled at the water’s edge in a few beaches by now, and loves her baths, and the kiddie pool isn’t big. It doesn’t take long before she’s happily splashing around, enthusing about the turtle-shaped tiles at the bottom and practicing her kicking while she holds the edge.

One of the other parents, wet from the pool, sidles over to Uthvir as they wet their feet and let Kel rest by hugging their calf.

“Not going in the water?” the woman asks them.

Uthvir glances up.

“Not today,” they say.

It earns them a knowing smile.

“Feeling self-conscious?” she guesses, and nods at their stomach.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow, and attempts to convey ‘fuck off’ via their silence. The message doesn’t seem to land, as the woman proceeds to pat at her own stomach. Which, they note, is round enough to denote a pregnancy.

“Well, you shouldn’t,” she offers. “Pregnancy is a really beautiful thing. And most everyone here’s been through it, or had a partner who has been. Nobody’s going to look twice at the stretch marks. You should bring your suit next time! Celebrate the changes your body is going through. I think we all owe it to the world to not hide these things, I bet you’re absolutely radiant under all those clothes!”

Uthvir sucks in a breath through their nose, and lets it out through their mouth.

“Thank you for your input,” they say.

The woman gives them a sympathetic look.

“You don’t believe me,” she guesses. In a tone of voice that implies that she is very sad for them, and their self-consciousness, and apparent lack of wonderment of the amazing experience that is pregnancy.

They feel their patience crack like hardened clay.

“Did it ever occur to you, in the midst of your clever analysis and presumptions, that perhaps there are some people who endure pregnancy  _entirely_  for the purposes of getting the child at the end?” they ask, not bothering to disguise their disdain. “This is not a magical experience for me. This is a chore I am doing, purely for the sake of the reward. You’re free to feel differently, but I would appreciate it if you directed your sentiments elsewhere.”

The woman looks slightly aghast with them.

Uthvir doesn’t see why she should; they were nowhere near as insulting as they could have been.

“But how can you… that’s your  _child,_  growing inside of you!” the woman exclaims. “How can you not appreciate the beauty of it?”

“Go ‘way,” Kel tells her.

Uthvir reaches down and pats her head reassuringly.

“It’s alright, Baby,” they say. “Just a little disagreement. Want to practice kicking some more?”

Kicking, at least, is very  _loud._  Kel nods and moves over to the side again, and Uthvir gets up, taking a few steps back to avoid the splash zone. The woman who had approached them stalks off again in a huff. They think that if their mood was less dire, they might be amused, rather than annoyed.

The woman keeps her distance until the end of the class, at least. Uthvir is getting Kel back into her clothes, and arguing the merits of pants - which their daughter currently finds to be a debatable article of clothing - when they hear her voice again, calling out to the other side of the pool.

“Serahlin!”

Uthvir glances up, swiftly, and then catches themselves and looks back down at Kel again. She gives a little huff as they jostle her by accident, but accepts their murmured apology, and finally relents about the pants. Uthvir glances up more sedately, and watches the woman who had approached them march with the kind of determination only a mid-to-upper-class parent can manage, to where a dark-haired woman is standing over by the pool doors. The ones which lead out to the rest of the community centre.

_Not a coincidence, then,_  they think, as they recognize Serahlin’s face. And the face of the little figure standing beside her, holding her hand. Ileth looks to be around Kel’s age again this time, they note, with a familiar pang.

The woman who had spoken to them starts talking to Serahlin. Too far away to hear now, but she’s gesturing towards them. Uthvir watches out of the corner of their eye as Serahlin’s expression turns stormy. Hm. Maybe they should have kept their patience a little bit better. They pack away Kel’s wet things, wrapping them up in her towel. Serahlin starts walking towards them, and Uthvir braces themselves for making a bad first impression. Kel, perhaps picking up on their mood, looks up at them curiously.

They turn to face their old friend.

“Serah Uthvir?” she says. “I am so sorry. Andrassy told me what happened, I cannot believe she approached you like that! I’m Serahlin, I organize the preschool enrichment classes here. It’s one of my volunteer jobs. And I just want you to know that even though we do try to adhere to a body-positive attitude, we don’t support parents pressuring one another to put on swimsuits. I’ve had a word with Andrassy and she won’t bother you again - so I hope this doesn’t sour you on coming back.”

She looks down at Kel, at that, and offers her a smile. Kel hides behind Uthvir’s legs, but not entirely. She manages a half-wave, and then a curious look at Ileth; who seems about ready to try hiding behind Serahlin’s legs, in turn. Uthvir can’t help but smile at the boy. They’d missed their little nephew.

“It’s no trouble,” they promise. “I could have been less sharp about it.”

Serahlin nods.

“Well that’s very gracious of you,” she says, lowering a hand onto Ileth’s head. “Oh, and this is my son, Ileth. He takes some classes here, too.”

Uthvir nods at the boy, before gently nudging Kel. Just enough to emphasize her presence.

“This is my daughter, Kel,” they introduce. “Kel, do you want to say hello?”

“…Hi,” Kel offers.

“Ileth, what do you say?” Serahlin chimes in, giving his head another encouraging pat.

“Hi,” Ileth mumbles back.

It’s unreasonably cute. Serahlin seems to think so, too, if the way her eyes crinkle are any indication.

“Did you like swimming, Kel?” she asks, kindly.

Kel nods, and grins, before she presses her face to the back of Uthvir’s leg.

“She likes the water,” they confirm.

“Memae,” Ileth lisps, quietly, but pointedly. Serahlin nods at him.

“I’m afraid we have to run,” she admits. “I promised Ileth we could see a movie before we got home. But hopefully, we’ll see the both of the you around.”

“Hopefully,” Uthvir agrees. “It was very nice to meet you and your mother, Ileth.”

“…Nyth’a meeyoudoo,” Ileth mumbles back. Serahlin offers similar sentiments to Kel, and follows it up with a cheery wave, before she and her son make their way out through the opposite set of pool doors. Uthvir watches them for a moment, and wonders how they’ve found themselves running events at a community centre in Ostwick. Serahlin’s voice had still lilted faintly Orlesian, but then again, there are a lot of Orlesian communities in the Free Marches. Uthvir files the interest away for later, and the feelings, too, but they give into impulse, and scoop Kel up as they leave the pool themselves.

Once they’re away from witnesses, Kel’s confidence comes bubbling back up, and she starts talking animatedly about the pool and swimming again. Gesturing emphatically as Uthvir buckles her in, before veering off onto questions about when she’s going to be big enough to ride in the front seat.

“When you’re twenty,” Uthvir tells her.

She huffs.

The sullen turn doesn’t last long, though, before they get home, and she gets to tell Papae all about swimming. Thenvunin is waiting for them, along with the newly delivered stove for the kitchen, and a fridge full of groceries he’s eager to cook. Thoughts of cooking make Uthvir think of Ileth’s baking. Make them think of the people they’ve missed, even in the rounds where they’ve caught up with most of them. They don’t always all find their way back to one another, and even when they do, it’s not always the same.

Well, of course it isn’t. Different lives are different.

But Uthvir can remember Ileth’s first birthday, and now this version of him is already three or four. They’ve met Thenvunin as a twenty-year-old and yet, this time, they didn’t catch up to him until he was thirty-five. They’ve missed whole lifetimes of people they loved growing up and growing old and never knowing them. Never knowing someone missed them.

It’s strange, sometimes. Even when it goes well. It can be hard.

They rest a hand on their stomach, and wonder who’s inside. Their child. But which child?

Uthvir misses them all. Sometimes even when they have them. They miss grown-up Kel even though they’ve got their baby right back with them. And when she’s grown, they miss her being little, too.

But… most people only get to know their loved ones once. Uthvir supposes, on the subject of amazing things, that there is a certain privilege in getting to know their loved ones over and over again. In so many different circumstances, and so many different ways.

They tuck Kel in with a lullaby, that night, and when they go to bed, they kiss the scars that this version of Thenvunin doesn’t have, and are glad to know that this lifetime doesn’t bring him constant pain.

In the end, they find out that Serahlin is - as expected - married to Adannar. Whose parents are alive in this lifetime. The couple are actually almost a decade younger than Thenvunin, and met in highschool. Serahlin has travelled between the Free Marches and Orlais for most of her life, since her mothers’ divorce, and Adannar came to the city after his parents moved here for their retirement. Apparently the climate suits them. Uthvir marvels a little bit at the currents of fate, but they can’t marvel too hard - these things have a way of just happening. Serahlin makes a point of being nice to them whenever she sees them at the community centre, and when Uthvir suggests a playdate between Kel and Ileth, readily agrees.

They don’t manage to meet Adannar until they’re fairly late into their pregnancy. He comes one afternoon to pick Ileth up, after Serahlin gets stuck in traffic. Uthvir’s making a snack to the tide the children over before dinner, and easily offers Adannar some, and finds the man as easy to befriend in this lifetime as in most others. He and Thenvunin also manage to get along like a house on fire, as the two bond over their mutual interest in sharing photos of babies and animals.

It provides a lot of distraction, at least, and this late term of their pregnancy progresses better than the last one. By a slim margin.

It also helps immensely that there’s someone trustworthy to leave Kel with when they go into labour.

Uthvir tries, they try  _very hard,_  not to freak out. They remind Fear that they have done this before, that they know what’s going on, that panic  _will not help,_  but there’s something just so visceral about the nature of the fear for themselves and their child that it simply can’t  _stick._ There’s too much pain and too much danger in all the things that might alleviate the pain.

They sit at the tattered edge of panic, hanging onto control by their fingernails, and they alternate between clutching Thenvunin’s hand this time and refusing to let him touch them, too frightened by their erratic control to even ground themselves in him, until they somehow manage to give birth without really being entirely aware of it. They get through the afterbirth before they realize, and panic sets as they don’t hear any crying.

But then they  _see_  her. In Thenvunin’s arms. Just like Kel had been. They see little hands moving, and the ringing in their ears dissipates enough that they realize she  _is_  crying. She’s crying and Thenvunin is crying, looking like he’s holding on by a tether, too, and Uthvir realizes that there’s something a little… wrong, this time. They’re bleeding a lot. And Fear is pressing at them, their body torn in ways that somehow hurt  _deeper_  than they usually do. The healers move in and Uthvir lets them, focusing on keeping their control even still, as spots dance in front of their eyes, and they are wheeled from the delivery room to one with a mage specialist waiting. Voices ringing, words catching in their ears. The ritual magic seems to have had unforeseen complications.

Uthvir focuses on their wounds, and the healers focus on their wounds.

_She’s safe,_  they remind themselves.  _Thenvunin has her._

And in the grand scheme of things, mending their own injured body seems like a simpler prospect than managing the complexities of another person growing inside of them. They don’t pass out, even when they’re supposed to. It’s better not to, though, and when the worst of the pain is done with, they start using their own magic to assist. Subtly, of course. Bleeding is easier to stop when you’re a blood mage, though.

They’re not sure how long it takes, at first. It feels like days, but it ends up being a couple of hours before they’re sent off to a recovery room. The chief healer speaks to them, explains what Uthvir had already gleaned. Their assurances that ‘no permanent damage seems to have been done’ are a little too pointed in the ‘you can still have more children’ department, but Uthvir cuts it short by playing the ‘I want to see my baby this minute’ card.

When Thenvunin hurries in he looks pale as death, and horribly relieved, and Uthvir is quite sure that the only thing keeping him on his feet is the baby in his arms.

“I’m alright,” they promise him. “Is she okay?”

“She’s perfect,” Thenvunin assures them, and carefully passes them the baby.

Eda.

Uthvir marvels down at her. They’ve never seen her this young before. Not outside of photographs, anyway. Her hair is little more than wisps on her head, and like most newborns she looks a bit like a potato, and she has none of her freckles and is too sleepy to really open her eyes. But it’s her. Uthvir’s daughter. They feel a brief pang of guilt, at the thought of stealing her from her other parents. It’s been a while since they’ve felt that over Kel, but this is a first time for Eda.

Still.

Uthvir got here first this lifetime, they suppose.

“Hello, Eda,” they say.

Thenvunin shakes and reaches for them, and their attention snaps back to him. They reach back, and pull him close before his knees give out. He curls awkwardly around their hospital bed. Crying against the side of their neck.

“I was so afraid we were going to lose you,” he confesses.

Uthvir closes their eyes and takes in a long breath. Smelling Thenvunin’s shampoo and Eda’s new baby smell.

“It’s going to take more than that,” they assure him.

Thenvunin cries himself hoarse against them, though, and no amount of soothing really seems to work as well as they’d like. They try to explain that it wasn’t… that the  _afterwards_ wasn’t as dangerous as he thought. They had more control over themselves at that point, but it’s difficult to explain without the full context, and Thenvunin looks like he thinks they’re just bullshitting him for comfort’s sake when they tell him it wasn’t so bad.

He does  _eventually_  calm down, though.

But getting home this time takes more doing. The doctors want to keep Eda for observation of ‘possible side-effects’, and Uthvir for monitoring, and they manage to do that for forty-eight hours as per Ostwick’s regulations on suspected magical injuries, before Uthvir puts their foot down and Thenvunin backs them up and all of them get home. Kel, who had only been able to visit at the hospital, is a bouncy ball of childish worry and excitement over her new sister. Uthvir aches in some novel new ways, but their skin finally stops crawling once they’ve got themselves and their family safely ensconced amidst their own wards, and among their own things.

Their own things, and a fridge full of food that Serahlin and Adannar generously provided, along with an amazingly soft plush whale for Eda, and a little toy purple hart that Kel picked out for herself. Uthvir musters up the energy to thank them over the phone, before Thenvunin fusses them into bed rest. Which they actually end up taking; falling asleep to the feel of Eda’s little heartbeat, and the sounds of Kel breathing, from where she’d tucked up beside them. They wake up once, during the night, and hear Thenvunin’s steady breaths added to the mix. His arm curled over Kel, and over their side, and resting on the edge of the co-bed where Eda is safely ensconced.

_Safe._

They drift back to sleep, and let another knot in their chest unclench.

But what equilibrium Uthvir gains from having their pregnancy done with, Thenvunin seems to have utterly lost in the shock of seeing them almost bleed out in labour. He is absolutely adamant that Uthvir not ‘exert themselves’ while they are recovering, to the point where they end up snapping at one another a few times, and Thenvunin’s efforts to do everything eventually overwhelm and exhaust him until he has another meltdown, and when Uthvir tries to point out that Thenvunin can’t actually do  _everything_  - they have a new baby to look after and a four-year-old to take care of and a house to keep up with and Thenvunin has an entire job at the pediatrics ward of a hospital, including a very intensive case which looks to be going on for even longer than planned - it just gives Thenvunin  _another_  meltdown, somehow.

So Uthvir calls Mirena.

Who flies out to Ostwick, and comes to coo over her granddaughters, and help scrape Thenvunin out of the abyss. Uthvir feels a little bad about needing help to do that, but in all honesty they  _are_  still recovering, and  _they_  can’t handle everything all by themselves, either.

Not that they don’t understand the impulse to try.

Eda’s on formula by then, so Mirena takes up residence in their guest room and takes over some of her nighttime care as she settles into her new rhythm. Which leaves Uthvir and Thenvunin time to actually talk to one another in bed, which is smarter than Uthvir would have guessed, because they do tend to have a lot of their more frank conversations between the sheets.

It only takes three days before Thenvunin cracks in a different, slightly less disastrous way.

“It’s my fault,” he tells them, quietly. Head on their chest, ear pressed to their heartbeat. “I dragged you to Kirkwall and then I made you travel again while you were pregnant, and I’ve been so busy working that you’ve had to take Kel practically everywhere, to her playdates and classes and playgrounds. I didn’t care of you like I did the first time, I didn’t take you to as many doctor’s appointments, I didn’t do as much around the house and it’s a  _bigger_ house and you renovated an entire kitchen and I, I just… left you. I left you to do everything…”

Uthvir looks down at Thenvunin’s wet eyes in utter consternation.

What is he talking about?

“Thenvunin,” they say. “You’ve been here the entire time. You do plenty of things. You make meals and do half the laundry and you haven’t let me unload the dishwasher since we had it installed. You take care of the garden, you decorated this whole place, and I have not seen a single day go by that you haven’t played with Kel. I didn’t  _over-exert_  myself. I had complications due to unforeseen magical energies. You know, the same ones that messed with my fertility in the first place? Babe?  _Those_  energies?”

They feel Thenvunin frown against them.

“No one else has suffered those kinds of complications so far, from the people affected…” he says, morosely.

Ah.

Well.

Uthvir has…  _other_  complications. On top of those complications.

They run a hand across his shoulder.

“So I guess that all the other cases had absolutely perfect prenatal care, then, and that’s why you’ve decided this is the difference?” they point out, instead. “None of them worked, all of them have partners devoting full-time attention to helping them, and live-in housekeepers and no other children, so clearly, the trigger point was  _that,_  and not, say, me being a mage? Or a shape-shifter? Or just suffering an unlucky roll of the dice?”

Thenvunin is silent for a long while. Eventually, though, he lets out a sigh, and something in him seems to relent.

“There was nothing I could do,” he says. “You were hurt and there was nothing I could do. So all I could think about was what I  _hadn’t_  done, beforehand…”

They sigh in understanding, and keep rubbing their hand up and down his shoulder. Offering the same sorts of comforting gestures that he tends to. And after a moment, they start brushing his hair back, too, and lean in to whisper gently to him.

“I’m here,” they say. “I’m alright. You’re alright. The babies are alright. Just focus on what’s going on right now, not on what could have happened, or what might happen later. You’re safe in bed with me, and I have you.”

Thenvunin lets out a shuddering breath, that sounds almost like it wants to be a self-deprecating laugh, before it chokes off into a sob instead. He tightens his hold on them for a moment. But after a while he relaxes it again. His breaths even out, and Uthvir thinks he might be on the verge of falling asleep. Which is good. One insomniac in this family is enough, and Thenvunin doesn’t even have a partner to help him with the particulars of that. Sleep is important for health; Uthvir can only cheat because of Fear.

But then Thenvunin lets out a sigh that still sounds pretty awake, and finally moves himself off of their chest and up onto his pillow. Uthvir lets him settle in. Their shirtfront is damp from tears; after a moment, they pull it off, and let Thenvunin settle a hand over their bare stomach.

“When Sethtaren died…” Thenvunin begins.

Uthvir pauses, at the shift in topics. Suddenly recollecting, in that moment, that Thenvunin has been widowed in this lifetime. They hadn’t exactly  _forgotten_  it, but… Sethtaren is generally such a piece of shit, it always takes Uthvir some effort to remember why they should care about his death. Beyond the convenience of it removing him from the picture, anyway.

They give Thenvunin a moment to articular his thoughts, as they kick themselves a little. Sethtaren  _died._  Thenvunin’s had a spouse die on him before. And whatever their feelings on the man, that couldn’t have been easy on their husband.

After a moment, Thenvunin lets out a breath, and a soft curse.

“I grieved him. But part of me… shamefully, part of me was relieved, too. That he was gone. Our marriage wasn’t… it wasn’t perfect.”

Uthvir offers his shoulder another pat, and wonders if they should mention how badly they want to kick Sethtaren’s ass. Probably not a good time for it? They put it aside for later, in case it’s needed, and settle for just listening. Thenvunin sounds like he’s struggling his way towards a point, and if they interrupt, it might make it harder for him to get there.

He lets out another sigh.

“No, it was more than just ‘not perfect’,” he admits. “I was miserable. Being married to Sethtaren made me not want to wake up in the morning. I was happier when he left than when he came home, I was miserable when he touched me and miserable when he didn’t. It was a mess, and I wanted to leave him, and then he died and I… I tried to change the story. Of what happened between us. Because it was easier to just be the grieved widow than to be the kind of person who was glad to see their husband die.”

Thenvunin’s fingers flex against their stomach, and his throat bobs. They can’t see him so well from this angle, he’s blocking the moonlight from the window now, but they’re pretty sure he’s crying again.

“Babe…” they start, but he interrupts them.

“Just let me finish,” he requests. “I just… I told myself that I knew what it was like, to lose someone I loved. And after a while I let myself believe that was what had really happened to me. Because I  _had_  loved Sethtaren. I didn’t by the time he died, but I did once. Or thought I did. But then we were in the hospital and you were in trouble, you were dying, and I have never been so terrified before in my life. I don’t think I could survive really losing someone I loved. I think it would break me.”

He falls silent, then.

Uthvir gives it a bit more time. But when it seems apparent that nothing else is forthcoming, they turn, and brush a stray lock of his hair away. Before they settle one of their hands overtop of his.

“My first love died,” they admit, into the fraught quiet. “I met him in college, a lifetime ago. I loved him as much as I love you. He was… he… when he died, it really did break me.”

Thenvunin shifts his hand around, and laces their fingers together.

“I’m sorry,” he says, faintly.

Uthvir shakes their head.

“But I didn’t  _stay_  broken, Thenvunin. You see? You won’t lose me. But if you do, you’ll be alright. Eventually. It would have been hard but you would have found reasons to keep going. You would have looked after Kel and Eda, and Screecher and your other birds, and you would have gone home to your family, and eventually the pain would dull to where you could manage it. And because you’re as ridiculous as I am, sometimes, you would probably feel guilty about moving on, but you’d also have to know that I would  _want_  you to be happy. That I would want you to be safe and loved and to live well, even without me.”

They stop, there. There are more things they could say on this topic, they think, but they’re edging perilously close to waters which Uthvir can’t stand to tread. After a few moments, though, Thenvunin just starts crying again. They let him, until it becomes clear that his pillow’s probably a damp mess; and then they coax him up to flip it around for him, and hand him a few tissues to help. Which ends with the two of them sitting up on the bed, exchanging reassurances and affection until three o’clock in the morning.

Thenvunin finally passes out, then, and Uthvir tucks him in and follows him into exhaustion not long after.

A fraught night.

But by the next day, Thenvunin finally seems to have calmed down a little. He even lets Uthvir make breakfast without trying to intervene, which is most certainly progress. Mirena gives them an approving look, and then announces that she’s taking her son out for lunch so that Uthvir can have some ‘quiet time’ with the girls. Which ends up, also, being a good idea. Uthvir’s not sure what she and Thenvunin talk about, but it seems to calm him down even more. They spend the time reassuring Kel that they’re alright, and doting on Eda.

Just like Kel, being born from them and Thenvunin has changed a few things about her appearance. Her eyes are still green, but they’re more of Thenvunin’s celery colour than her usual shade. And she doesn’t have her freckles - at first, anyway. They start to come in again later. Her hair curls more, though it’s still blonde, and there’s more of Thenvunin’s angular shape to her jaw. It makes her look a lot like Virevas, Uthvir thinks.

Kel takes to being a big sister with the same determination that she usually does. She’s very curious about Eda and seems to have endless questions. How fast will she grow? When will she be big enough to play with? Was Kel that small when she was a baby? Was Nanae that small when  _they_  were a baby? Was  _Papae_  that small when-?

Uthvir basically has to confirm the prior tiny-ness of every adult in Kel’s life before she stops asking that one.

After a point they’re pretty sure she’s just doing it to mess with them, but it’s cute anyway.

Thenvunin’s work reaches the point where the girl he’s helping has shown enough improvement - rather than deterioration - that her care can be less specialized. Of course, it’s still well within Thenvunin’s usual job description to handle it anyway, and he and Uthvir end up having a long talk about what they want to do. Whether to stay in Ostwick or to go back to their place in southern Ferelden. Mirena lets it be known that Uthvir would be more than welcome to come and work for her, if they wanted, and while Uthvir thinks that part of Thenvunin wants to keep working, they can also recognize some signs that he maybe needs to take a breather for a while, too.

But then again, there are Serahlin and Adannar to think about. Moving would probably mean an end to their friendship, tentative as it is, and Uthvir’s not…  _entirely_  willing to just give that up. Especially if they don’t have to. The couple have been trying for their second child again, and if Tonlen has a hard enough time this round, too, then having this particular Thenvunin at hand could also help him a lot.

They’ve learned the hard way, though, that sometimes they have to choose. If they stay in Ostwick then Thenvunin will still be far away from his parents and siblings, who are his support system in this life. And he’ll keep working, without much reprieve from the stress, and Uthvir honestly thinks he  _needs_  a reprieve. They’ve never known Thenvunin to work consistently when he didn’t have to, truth be told. He likes taking breaks, doing other things, switching careers, and focusing on home. And then switching it up again a few years later.

Besides, Uthvir is themselves getting a little restless.

But in the end they ask Thenvunin, and when Thenvunin tells them he wants to go home, they give Serahlin and Adannar their contact information. They drop in a few reminders of what Thenvunin’s career specialty is, and leave Ileth a going-away present, and end up selling the house to the little family. Uthvir puts in an air filtration system before they move out, just in case.

They take Mirena’s job offer, and start looking for some interesting side work, too. Corporate management can get a little dull, in their experience. Thenvunin fusses about not working until Uthvir reminds him that  _they_  haven’t been, and that looking after the girls is a full time job anyway. And they think it’s the right decision, when they get back and Thenvunin is bombarded by jubilant younger siblings, and immediately decides that they need to redo the house because it feels so  _stale,_  Uthvir, and they have to redo a bigger bedroom for Kel, and get fresh nursery things for Eda, and was the dining room always that cramped? Whoever thought that massive table was a good idea? Certainly not Thenvunin.

Uthvir gives him the down payment that Serahlin and Adannar made on their Ostwick house, and tells him to have at it.

It takes some adjustments though, of course. Kel’s used to having Uthvir all day, not Thenvunin, and while she loves them both, once the novelty has worn off they go through a brief round of ‘Papae does things  _differently_  and Kel is Annoyed With This’, before the new routines establish themselves. Uthvir has some troubles leaving for work in the morning, especially because Eda is so very small, but they manage to avoid being late  _too_  often. And Thenvunin seems content to leave most of his fears of their death behind in Ostwick. Though, every so often, he does blurt out emphatic confessions of love, or hold them a little too tightly at night.

Screecher is probably the  _least_  happy with the move, because the garden in Ferelden gets snow. The bird appears to blame Uthvir for this. Uthvir brings the ridiculous creature a few rabbits, though, and it stops screaming at them about it - eventually.

And then it seems like, before they know it, Kel is old enough for kindergarten, and Eda is a freckly toddler figuring out how to open the garden door for the express purposes of giving Thenvunin heart attacks. And visiting the birds. And the squirrels.

Uthvir puts up extra wards and adds a lock to the top of the sliding door.

Sometimes they dream, though, about Virevas. And Irenan, though they’ve never carried Irenan and aren’t entirely sure they could, given that he has no elven blood. Thenvunin isn’t ready for another pregnancy and neither is Uthvir, but even as happy as they are… they want their babies. All of their babies.

They think this might be a life where they could get them, too. Where they could keep them safe and happy, or as safe and happy as they could ever manage.

It’s a conversation that they ease into. Carefully. More children.

Thenvunin is in favour of more children, but not of more pregnancies. Uthvir honestly is inclined to agree, but also, it’s a long shot to bank on adoption, and they’ve never tried surrogates before. They don’t just want  _babies,_  they want  _their_  babies. Or at least babies they’re already attached to. They know it’s maybe not… not the healthiest thing, but, they try and keep from building too many ‘new’ attachments these days. New people to love and to lose and to worry over finding or never finding again.

It’s too hard. Sometimes. It’s too much to ask of themselves to make those new connections, even if they’ve never regretted one.

Kel and Eda are still just little, though, and while Thenvunin does fret about being over forty now, it’s not necessarily a pressing concern. Serahlin and Adannar write and share posts over social media, and Tonlen is born with a minimum of complications this time around. Selene eventually crawls out of hiding and finds Dirthamen in a bar in Arlathan, and reports Falon’Din in jail and Mythal quietly engaged to some pilot or something. No sisters, so no Andruil, it seems. Melarue remains reclusive but when Kel is seven sends a request for some supplies at one of Eda’s old cabins, which Uthvir answers with little fuss. Dalish conservationists estimate the Brecilian Dragon Reservation to be flourishing.

A year later, Uthvir comes to a decision, and they have another conversation with Thenvunin about it. And then another. They submit to several check-ups and exams, and get an all-clear from three different physicians, before Thenvunin finally gives in, and they start trying for a third child. Uthvir tells themselves that it might even be  _better_  to just do it and get it over with quickly. Maybe this will be the start of a new trend. Maybe they should have been doing it this way all along.

It is absolutely  _awful._

Pregnancies, they think, when not given enough time between, just stack cumulative awfulness. It’s the only answer that makes sense. The end up going on maternity leave earlier than planned because their nerves get shot nearly from day one, and their morning sickness manages to be worse, and they’re fairly sure they’re getting psychosomatic back aches. Thenvunin takes them to the hospital far more than they would like, worrying that all of this is a sign of trouble… which ultimately just ratchets up Uthvir’s stress levels, and leaves them to deal with varying degrees of patronization from whatever new medical professional their husband has managed to dig up this week.

And it’s not just the two of them, either. Kel was old enough when it happened that she can sort of remember Eda’s birth, and so Uthvir finds themselves dealing with an eight-year-old who refuses to let them carry groceries in from the car, and insistently watches them take their vitamins every morning. And even though she’s  _not_  old enough to remember, and has certainly never been told by anyone that Nanae had troubles in labour with her, Eda picks up on the general atmosphere anyway and starts waking up in the night from bad dreams.

By the second trimester Uthvir is feeling as raw around the edges as they usually do by their third, struggling with more insomnia than seems reasonable, while Thenvunin has been getting a little wild-eyed and neurotic himself. The girls all but move into their bedroom. Uthvir’s fine with that, though, they just set up a television in there and play games in the massive pillow fort, where it’s easy to keep an eye on them.

Eventually, though, Mirena comes over. Uthvir’s been keeping an eye on her health, but so far she hasn’t shown any dire signs of trouble. They think she’s sick, but not as badly as usual - which seems to be a theme for this lifetime. There’s a lot of magical energy around this century, though, so it might be contributing. To a lot of things.

Either way, Mirena takes one look at the state of the house, and tsk’s, and makes Uthvir get the girls ready and put on however many layers they way, and takes them all out to dinner. Which is simultaneously a good kick in the pants, and also the worst thing ever. Uthvir’s fairly certain that even metaphorically kicking pregnant people is still a questionable tactic. They sit uncomfortably in the restaurant, hyper-aware of everything and fighting not to be, until they halfways give up and just pull Eda into their lap. Unlike Kel she’s still small enough to fit even with the crowding, and helping her try out some of their salad gives them something else to focus on.

Mirena relents a little, and the next time she drags them out of the house, it’s only to come over to her own place.

But Uthvir knows it’s a problem. By the third trimester they’re so agoraphobic they can’t even make it to the end of the driveway. They need help.

Fortunately, now, it’s slightly more attainable than it was before.

They call Selene.

Fear revolts at the idea of enlisting Des’ assistance, but they need it, and ultimately it’s not in Fear’s nature to preference pride over pragmatism. Selene shows up with Dirthamen in tow, and some presents for the girls, and for Thenvunin. Who is delighted by the swan-shaped vase she gives him, and only a little wary at this ‘cousin’ of Uthvir’s who has managed to not be part of their lives for the past decade. Uthvir would explain that a decade’s really not all that much to miss when you’re a not-infrequently-depressed immortal, but that would mean explaining immortality, so they just stick to the not-infrequently-depressed angle.

Dirthamen knows.

Again.

Because Selene told him.

Again.

“It’s not as if it has  _ever_  backfired,” she reminds them. “And I’m not going to premise our entire relationship on a lie.”

Uthvir’s lips thin. Guilt hits them, along with defensiveness. They can summon up a plethora of excuses for why they don’t tell Thenvunin. Because it would hurt him. Because it would endanger him. Because if anyone ever found out they were an abomination, at least he’d have the sliver of a chance that would come from not knowing it himself. Because it’s simpler this way.

But the truth is, all four-in-two beings in the room know it’s just because Uthvir is a massive coward on this front.

And almost certailny always will be, too.

“One time, this is going to backfire  _spectacularly,_  and it will only need to backfire  _once_ because when it does, we will all be dead,” they say, instead. “Make sure Dirthamen doesn’t tell Thenvunin, at least.”

Really, at this point, Des defending honesty and Fear insisting he’s going to get them all killed is basically their reunion routine anyway.

Selene sighs.

“He knows he’s not supposed to,” she promises.

And then she looks at the swell of their stomach, and then at their eyes again.

“Three times?” she asks them.

Uthvir can only offer a shrug.

“…I missed them all.”

Which isn’t a sentiment that either Selene or Des can offer up an argument against, they know. Selene has labour complications fairly often, too. She probably would have died a few times over she wasn’t possessed. Even apart from the obvious factor of, well, time, and that she wouldn’t be immortal if she wasn’t possessed. Uthvir lets her press a hand to their stomach, and also appreciates it when she doesn’t leave it there for long.

“Well I know why  _you’re_  so jumpy, but why is  _Thenvunin_  acting like he’s been possessed by a Fear demon, too?” she asks them.

So Uthvir has to explain about Eda, then. Which Selene finds more interesting than they expected, but then again, complicated magical rituals are a hobby of hers. She feels badly, too, that she wasn’t around to help with it, they think. Not that she  _should,_  but Uthvir shrugging off her apologies has rarely proved sufficient to Selene’s guilt. Even a Desire demon hasn’t conquered it, so their own odds have always been pretty low.

“I’ll help,” she promises. “But Dirthamen and I are renting our own place, I don’t like it when Fear and Des get into dreamscape pissing contests.”

“Fair enough,” Uthvir agrees.

Fear wants to argue the point, because of course it does. But they manage to get back upstairs and get through an entire meal without giving in to the impulse. Dirthamen gives them a few curious looks, but otherwise doesn’t make any waves either, and Kel and Eda are good distractions for Selene. Who is almost certainly thinking about the twins, as she looks at the already-eight-year-old Kel, and answers some of Eda’s questions. Which, at this age, are mostly about what Selene’s favourite colour is and what her favourite animals are.

While Thenvunin is tucking in the girls, and Selene is booking a hotel, Dirthamen tentatively approaches Uthvir.

“You have children,” he says.

They raise an eyebrow at him.

“Nothing gets past you, does it?” they reply. Ah, Dirthamen. They think they know what he’s after, though, given that it wouldn’t be the first time.

“Selene is…  _reluctant_ , about-”

“Yes, she is,” they confirm. “It’s very hard to balance these things. You can’t really give her back what she’s lost, and I think you’ve been wondering, so no, you can’t remember it, either. But you can… regain, some things. You can rebuild. You just have to know that eventually, whatever you build will come to an end.  _You_  won’t have to watch your children die, probably. But she will. That’s why it’s hard, not because of you. Because of  _that_.”

Dirthamen nods in acknowledgement.

“I want to marry her,” he admits.

“You usually do.”

He nods again.

“She does things differently from you. You did not tell your soulmate-”

“And we’re done talking now. How about that? I’ll pack you up some leftovers to take with you, make sure Selene gets a room with a minifridge.”

They stalk off. To his credit, Dirthamen doesn’t try to press the matter any further. He’s fairly reliable like that. Uthvir gives Selene enough food to make sure they won’t wile away the evening in hunger, and emphatically Does Not Think about what they aren’t telling Thenvunin, and why. If they spend the rest of the night struggling to sleep, it’s easy to just blame it on the pregnancy.

In the small hours of the morning, they lie awake listening to Thenvunin breathe, and think about their grandchildren. If Kel’s life is typical of her lives, then she probably won’t have her first child until her late twenties, at earliest. Thenvunin is forty-seven, now. That would make him sixty-seven by the time his first grandchild is born,. Old enough that he’ll probably feel  _old_  when it happens. Another twenty years for Fenasal or Jelena or Ayal to grow up. Eighty-seven, nearly ninety… but their grandchildren and children rarely have their own babies while they’re young. Thenvunin probably won’t get to dote on his great-grandchildren in this life.

Uthvir settles a hand on their stomach, and tries to stop thinking so far ahead.

It’s still a good lifetime.

The next day, Selene gives them a knowing look over lunch. Her own mood seems to have improved.

“This is a hard one for you,” she observes.

Uthvir scoffs.

“No it isn’t. Apart from one little incident, things have been downright idyllic,” they counter.

She just hums at them.

“Idyllic gives you too much time to brood,” she insists.

“I’m not brooding. I went and found him, and married him, and I didn’t even try to hide under any bridges or pretend like I wasn’t going to pursue him,” they shoot back.

“I wasn’t  _hiding under a bridge,_ you just  _found_  me under a bridge-”

“It was like something out of a children’s fairytale. Were you planning on demanding tolls?”

“Please stop making that joke, it wasn’t even funny the first hundred times.”

“Vena thought it was funny.”

_“He was five!_  And his sense of humour is juvenile even when he’s ninety!”

“Point.”

They lapse into silence. Uthvir eats their sandwich, while Selene just sort of stares contemplatively at hers for a while. Thenvunin is out with the girls, letting their aunt spoil them.

“We’re getting old,” Selene muses.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow at her.

“Just now?” they ask, wryly. She shrugs, and doesn’t rise to the bait.

“I mean in a different way,” she tells them. “We got old the first time. And then we grieved. And then we found them all again. But now even finding them again is getting worn-in. Do you think we’ll just keep doing this until the end of the world?”

They don’t know what to offer, apart from a shrug.

“No,” they admit. And decide not to elaborate. They don’t think Selene would make it to the end of the world before something broke her contract with Des. Melarue might make it there. Or they might just get killed. The same could be said of Uthvir. But eventually, they think, they’ll either figure out this wheel, or they’ll get caught up by it again.

They’re still afraid of death. But… less than they could be, now.

After a few more minutes, Selene abandons that topic, and nods at their stomach instead.

“Know who it is?” she asks.

They give her a Look.

Over the years, Selene has developed a talent for telling which of her babies she’s carrying. Eda could tell very well, too, even before they were born. And Melarue often seems to guess right. But Uthvir has always only ever known when they see them. Maybe their mind is just too given to entertaining multiple possibilities. Or maybe they’re just dense about it. They aren’t sure, except that they know there’s a baby in there, and it’s growing, and nothing out of the ordinary seems to be happening to it. Or them.

Selene shrugs.

“I thought maybe the third time would be the charm,” she says, her tone all Des.

“It’s a baby,” Uthvir drawls. “It’ll be whoever it likes.”

“Well, yes, but that would be true no matter ‘who’ it was.”

On that, at least, the two of them can agree.

Uthvir’s third pregnancy runs long. Which is hard to take, given that they were at the end of their tether with it even sooner than usual. By the time they go into labour they’re on bed rest, and their discomfort is such that they are more than ready to have it all done with. They don’t hesitate to accept Des’ help, to focus on what they want - which is the baby - and use that drown out the worst of Fear’s reactions. Dirthamen watches the girls while Thenvunin hovers and snaps at hospital staff and promises Uthvir that everything will be alright, as he rather blatantly worries that it won’t be.

Having another abom around works far better than any drug, though, and this labour manages to be the easiest, for all that the pregnancy was the hardest.

Thenvunin holds Virevas where they can see her, and cries, and cries again when the healers all confirm that everything has gone smoothly. Selene quietly excuses herself from the room, while Uthvir takes their new baby from their husband, and introduces themselves to her once again. Counting fingers and toes as she proves that she has a good working set of lungs.

Thenvunin rests his forehead against theirs, and cups their cheek, and presses messy kisses against them.

“You’re alright,” he breathes, before kissing Virevas on her head. “You’re both alright.”

Uthvir just hums, and lets themselves bask in the relief. Virevas. Kel and Eda and Virevas.

They’re going to have to think of a new nickname for her, though. ‘Baby bee’ won’t make as much sense this time.

They manage to get home with only a few more delays than is usual. Mostly because Thenvunin wants to make absolutely certain that everything is alright, and Uthvir is too tired to argue as much as they might. The girls are excited to meet their new sister, and Uthvir is still at ease enough from Des suppressing Fear that they even let Dirthamen hold her, too. Eda probably wins the prize for being Most Enamored, though, as she begs to hold her sister, and doesn’t relent until Thenvunin takes them both in his lap and lets her try.

Kel settles in onto the bed next to Uthvir, instead, and watches them, and silently asks for some reassurance that everything really  _is_  alright. Uthvir pats her hair and whispers as much to her, until she sighs and basks in the comfort a little. When she’s done with that, she goes and asks to hold Virevas, too, but by then Uthvir is losing the battle with exhaustion. They let themselves go, seizing the opportunity as Fear is still quiet, and sink into a dreamless sleep.

When they wake up, it’s to Thenvunin apologetically informing them that Virevas needs to eat. Uthvir takes her with a muzzy nod. They don’t much care for breastfeeding - it’s painful and inconvenient and while they like the closeness, and looking after their children, they prefer the formula. Which works absolutely fine, whatever the naysayers believe. Halla milk is best, of course, so that’s the kind they get. But for the first few days, they usually do breastfeed anyway, because it supposedly gives the babies antibodies and that’s a worthy enough cause.

Thenvunin sits with them, and even though they’ve never asked him to or even, to their awareness, alluded to the matter, he always covers their blindside, for while they’re holding and watching the baby. Maybe he’s just noticed that sitting himself there makes Uthvir relax more.

They’re switching sides when they hear the telltale sound of tiny feet at the door.

“Nanae?” Kel calls.

“I’ve got it,” Thenvunin tells them, and goes and gets up. “What is it, darling? Did I forget to put your nightlight on?”

“Yeah, but… I… I got up to do it but it was dark and I was scared, and I made a light…”

Uthvir pauses, and looks up just in time to catch Thenvunin’s soft intake of breath, and see a flickering of white-blue light spark in the hallway.

“Oh my goodness,” Thenvunin breathes.

Uthvir swallows.

She’s a mage again. Oh. They feel the familiar, heady mixture of delight and sorrow. Kel’s a good mage, when she has the magic. A little flashy, to her chagrin, but she’s good at finding utilities for it, and she tends to catch on to defensive spells quickly. Which is good, because the first thing Uthvir wants to do any time one of their children shows magic is hurry them off to safety.

The world is comparatively kind to mages right now, at least.

“Kel, that’s amazing!” Thenvunin says. Virevas fusses a little at his raised voice, and with a knowing glance to Uthvir, he hurries out into the hall. They feel a note of brief frustration at not being able to go see to things themselves. But then they look down at Virevas’ little face, and it’s not as if they blame  _her,_  either.

“I know,” they say, as they settle her into place again. “You’re hungry. I’ll be patient.”

They hold her close and get her to latch on again, and listen with one ear to the softer sounds of Thenvunin enthusing over Kel’s abilities to make lights. By the time they’ve finished and gotten Virevas settled again, Eda has emerged from her room, and is happily exclaiming over Kel’s lights, too.

“Nanae, look, they’re pretty!” she says, and Kel glances at them, before somewhat shakily summoning up a few more flickers of light. Uthvir watches it spark from her fingers, and when they smile encouragingly, sees it glow brighter.

“Beautiful,” they agree. “Well done, Kel. We’ll have to get you lessons.”

“I was just saying as much,” Thenvunin confirms. “Grandmamae will be so excited when I tell her, too! But no more magic for tonight, I think. We all need our rest.”

He starts urging the girls back to their rooms, then. Uthvir gestures at him to take Eda, though, and after a moment he does, showing only the briefest concern in his eyes when Kel’s back is to him. Uthvir leads their eldest to her room themselves, and go through their usual routine. They check the closet and the bed, and turn on her nightlight. Unlike Thenvunin to forget, but bringing a new baby home is certainly a distracting set of circumstances. They tuck Kel in and drop a kiss onto her head, and then place a few on her fingers for good measure.

“You feel alright?” they check.

She nods at them.

“I was just surprised,” she admits. “Are you okay, Nanae? Is the baby okay?”

“Mmhmm, we’re both tired but we’ll be fine,” they confirm. “Be careful with your lights, though. If you have any accidents, come get me or Papae straight away, okay? And listen to Papae. No more magic tonight.”

“I  _know,”_  she assures them, with a very Thenvunin-like huff. “Just because it’s magic doesn’t mean I don’t know the rules!”

They tap her nose.

“I’m only making sure,” they tell her. “Sleep tight, baby.”

“Goodnight, Nanae.”

When they get back to their room, Thenvunin is sitting on the bed, watching Virevas sleep. Uthvir slumps down beside him. Neither of them talk, though both indicate that, of course, they’ll have to. In the morning, though. Right now it’s quiet, and Virevas is sleeping, and by unspoken agreement they don’t want to wake her. Thenvunin tugs Uthvir back under the covers. They snuggle for a while, but eventually get too uncomfortable for touch, and withdraw a bit to fall back asleep.

The next months pass in the usual blur of infant care. Selene and Dirthamen leave about a week after Uthvir gives birth. Uthvir doesn’t comment on the look in Selene’s eyes whenever she sees the girls; they know it too well themselves, and know that it’s why she doesn’t hold Virevas before she leaves, either.

Kel gets magic lessons, on top of her usual schooling, which gives her a fairly full schedule. Eda’s preschool gets a new teacher. Uthvir goes to vet him, and very nearly beheads a man in front of a gaggle of children when they recognize him from Eda’s past. They manage to reserve themselves, though, and just take Eda home, and pull a few old strings up out of the dirt to help make the new teacher’s disappearance fairly seamless.

They kill him themselves, though. They need the certainty of seeing him dead. It’s the first person they’ve killed in a long while, actually, but Uthvir’s conscience doesn’t trouble them over it. Some people change, between lifetimes. But some - the very good and the very bad, most often - don’t. And Uthvir’s not going to risk little children on an off-chance anyway. They slit the man’s throat, burn the body, and then go home and listen to Eda and Kel play sing-a-long, while Thenvunin bathes Virevas, and the birds outside try and join in.

Sometimes Uthvir would swear half their family is Disney princesses.

They blame Thenvunin.

Really, they blame him for most of the best things in life, though.


	32. Uthvir Reset - The One Where No One Found Them

Things are not… good.

Uthvir is willing to concede that might be an understatement. But Spider-Man is making enough dire portents as it is, and they don’t exactly want to add to the litany that their cursed doll has been muttering about for several days now.

Where to even begin?

Their father is in jail. Again. Two and a half years until he’s eligible for parole, but Uthvir doesn’t plan on being the one to pick him up when he gets out this time. His last ‘scheme’ is the whole reason they’re currently in this mess to begin with. Or at least, that’s what they’re going to blame it on. It’s easier to think of it as a scheme gone awry, than to think that their father let them have sex with a mark in a location he  _knew_  was magically compromised.

Uthvir’s usual contraceptive precautions had all failed them.

It had been… tough. To deal with the realization of the consequences. To figure out what they wanted to do.

Tough choices to make. Rhapsody made his opinion pretty clear.

Uthvir hadn’t gone with his approach, though. They might be a disloyal and disappointing child, but, maybe they’ll have a half shot at making for a decent parent. At least they have a long, long list of what  _not_  to do.

And the top of that list is ‘let their own father anywhere near this kid’.

Uthvir’s stomach is huge and their back is killing them, and the emergency motel room they’d booked smells so strongly of cleaning solutions that it’s making them nauseous. They open a window, and then drop the plastic grocery bag of emergency supplies onto the cheap little coffee table, and sit down on the bed. Settling Spider-Man in beside them as they stare up at the stained ceiling. Outside it’s cold. Ferelden ice and snow. They take a few deep breaths, and focus on getting their stomach to stop swimming.

 _Need to drink something,_  Spider-Man reminds them.

“In a minute,” Uthvir replies.

They check their phone, but there are no new messages from the lawyer. After Rhapsody got arrested, their landlord had taken it upon himself to confiscate the contents of their still-leased apartment, and kick Uthvir out. They filed with small claims court about it, and given there was no lien in their lease and they were all paid up, they’ll probably win. But in the meantime all they’ve got is what little was left in their emergency fund.

And the house.

Which is another mess altogether.

Spider-Man had managed to escape the landlord’s confiscation, which was good. He’d found Uthvir down at the court house, in his usual inexplicable way - showing up in the backseat of Rhapsody’s car. Uthvir had tried to get back to the building before the landlord could change the locks or trash their things, but it was a two hour drive in traffic, and they hadn’t made it. The man had hidden in his office and refused to come out. Short of breaking down the door, Uthvir didn’t have a lot of options. They couldn’t exactly phone the police, given their reputation - and even if they did, it probably wouldn’t help them any.

 _Drink,_  Spider-Man insists.

With a sigh, they get up, and go fish out one of the bottles of water they’d gotten from the gas station. They need their vitamins, too, but right now they think they need to catch a break even more, and they don’t have enough money to splurge on the twenty-four-hour pharmacy. They’ll need to find a mark and work up some cash again soon. They had just enough for two nights at this place. Then they’ll probably have to camp out at the house.

Luckily, people can be pretty nice to someone who’s nine months pregnant. If you approach them the right way.

Uthvir always hates preying on kindness the most, though. On the other hand, it tends to have the lowest risks. There are other sorts of people who can be manipulated around a pregnancy, but Uthvir’s feeling vulnerable enough as it is, and Spider-Man keeps sounding the alarms and getting all spooky any time they so much as sneeze.

_Not safe._

No kidding, pregnancy’s not safe. Historically high cause of death for people with uteri, in fact. Uthvir can’t say they’ve been a fan of the entire process. But it has some interesting bits, too. Like the kicking. And the feeling of something growing inside of them.

_Little guest._

As much as they would rather have done with it, for now, it’s probably best if their own tenant extends the lease.

The money their mother gave them when they turned seventeen had been enough for a down payment on a house. Uthvir hadn’t told Rhapsody about it. They knew the cash would vanish the minute they did, and fortunately, Rhapsody hadn’t even known that their mother had been in contact with them. Not that it was  _much_  contact, but still. Some lingering sense of maternal responsibility had compelled her to seek them out - to offer them something, even if it also came with the certainty that Uthvir wasn’t going to be in her will.

They’d never expected to be, though. So the windfall was just that. They’d known enough to know that they needed to invest it right away, though. Putting it in an account somewhere just made it more likely that Rhapsody would find it, or that some emergency or another would wittle it away. It hadn’t been enough for a  _good_  house, but Uthvir had shopped around, and eventually found an investment property that they made a seemingly-good deal on. The owner wanted time to clear out, and agreed to have repairs done and the place more than livable by the time the deadline was up.

That had been before Uthvir had gotten pregnant. Eleven months, now, and the extended time period for repairs and moving out is gone. But the former owner of their property, an elf going by the name of Elandaris Thiel, still hasn’t ‘finished’ the repairs, and it’s the dead of Ferelden winter. Ordinarily it wouldn’t be such an issue. With their original plan, Uthvir had just intended to use the house as an emergency escape route, and maybe resell it later on down the line.

But now they  _need_  that house, they need to live in it, they need to get a nursery done for it and they need to make sure it’s safe. They need to find a job that won’t get them arrested, something that won’t have them tearing up and down Thedas’ highways every week, something that will put food on their table and buy their kid… like, diapers and clothes and toys and things. Nice things.

 _Need to eat,_  Spider-Man tells them. The plastic bag moves a bit on the table.  _Pointedly._

The air still smells like cheap cleaner, though, and the thought of eating makes Uthvir’s stomach revolt again. So they just shake their head, and take a minute to try and get comfortable instead. A minute turns into several minutes, because late term pregnancy and physical comfort are not on speaking terms. Uthvir lies on the scratchy motel blankets and considers calling their mother for help.

She might do it.

Or she might just decide this is the final nail in Uthvir’s coffin. Pregnant, barely legal, and only  _just_  having avoided doing hard time themselves. She might even think they’re lying. Or she might be like Rhapsody, and want them to give up the baby. Maybe she’ll even decide she wants her money back. Maybe she’ll tell everyone that Uthvir stole it - people would probably believe her.

Hell, Uthvir probably would. They  _are_  a thief, after all.

They mull the risks and the prospect over until they finally manage to drift off.

They wake up some time in the night with a pressing urge to pee. Before they were pregnant, Uthvir never had to assess how  _badly_  they needed to pee and compare it to how hard it would be to stand up. It’s a futile calculating system, though, because their little guest likes to use their bladder as a punching bag, and Uthvir  _really_  does not want to contemplate the extra cost to their bill if they piss themselves in the hotel bed. They blink open their eyes, and see a dull blue light emanating from the little desk by the door.

Spider-Man has their laptop open.

With a sigh, and only a slight production, Uthvir gets themselves up onto their feet. The air’s cold, and the hotel heater is at war with the window they left open. The smell of cleaner has let up some, though, so they close the window and shuffle off to the bathroom. A bath would probably be nice, but the thought of trying to get in and out of the tiny hotel tub banishes it from their mind. They settle for emptying their bladder, before splashing some water on their face and making their way back out into the main room.

They wander over to see what Spider-Man is looking at. A website with a green banner that has a picture of some toothily smiling elves greets their gaze, with words written in tacky cursive settled across the top.

_Elven Friend Finder - Find Your Life’s Companion Today!_

They glance sidelong at Spider-Man.

“Please tell me that you’re just checking to make sure no one’s put our information into some scam wesbite,” they ask.

 _Find Thenvunin,_  Spider-Man replies.

He keeps fucking saying that.

Uthvir has no idea what it means. It’s entirely possible that he stayed up late one night watching movies or something, and just fixated on one of the character names. Spirits are weird like that - and over the years, Uthvir has learned that their haunted doll is even weirder than most. They sigh, and exit out of the tab, and clear their browsing history. Running the anti-virus for good measure, before they scoop Spider-Man up, and carry him back to the bed with them.

“There is no ‘Thenvunin’,” they say. “Just you and me and the freeloader.”

Spider-Man radiates disquiet at them. But not any more loudly than they’ve been feeling it themselves, lately.

_Need food._

They sigh.

“Let me sleep, and I’ll eat in the morning. I promise. Okay?” they offer.

Silence.

Then a general sense of acquiescence. Uthvir checks their phone again - nada - before their exhaustion catches up with them, and they remind themselves that the house is only sparsely furnished, and they’ve got just two nights of sleeping in a bed before they’re probably going to have to make do with a bag on a hardwood floor.

It doesn’t really help them fall asleep any faster, but it helps them at least feel like they’re putting in a good effort at it.

When they wake up, it’s mid-morning. Spider-Man is slumped over the swell of their stomach, and once again, Uthvir has to pee. They force themselves to get moving again. Talking idly to their little guest and to Spider-Man, who is sulking, by the looks of things. Or possibly brewing  _quietly_  over the dire nature of their situation. Either way, they manage a quick shower, and then their stomach actually starts rumbling, so they tuck into the food they got from the gas station. Mostly nuts and some chocolate and jerky. The standard fare of their life, but they did get a little cup of diced fruit, too, and a can of juice.

More than anything they want to find somewhere soft and safe and just… hide there, until the baby comes.

But that’s not an option.

So they make themselves get online, and check their accounts and e-mail. They find a message from their lawyer about their housing issue, which is couched in a lot of polite legal-ese but which basically amounts to telling them that they  _can_  take the seller of their house to court, but they’re currently better off just trying to get him to pay for the repairs to the house and avoid the hassle. Uthvir figured that would be the case, though. And the law has not generally been on their side, as a point of historical precedent.

They let out a long breath, and then look at Spider-Man.

“Well,” they say. “Shall we head over to Casa De Elvhen?”

The doll’s head tips forward in a nod, and then it vanishes.

Uthvir expects he’s gone to wait for them in the car. And probably to also make sure that no wolverines or rapists have gotten into the backseat to lurk threateningly there, as is his wont. They’ve seen more than enough horror movies to know that the general public would disapprove of Spider-Man, but really, having a demonically possessed doll isn’t nearly as bad as some things in life. They suppose the difference is in intentions, though. Spider-Man doesn’t  _want_  to terrorize them.

They tidy up some of the wrappers from their ‘breakfast’, and bring the second water bottle they’d bought with them, and leave the hotel room for housekeeping as they head out for their car. Sure enough, Spider-Man is waiting for them in the backseat. Uthvir pulls out slowly, mindful of the ice and snow, and turns onto the street that leads down to the little cul de sac where their house is located.

It’s not a big place. The  _lot_  is big, which currently just means that it’s buried under several feet of snow, but the house itself is a one-story, two-bedroom place, with no basement and no real attic, either. The siding is a sad grey, and there are two front steps that lead up to a sheltered porch. Unfortunately, the slop in the roof is such that the melting snow tends to run off onto the bottom step, which means that every night when it re-freezes, it turns into a miniature skating rink. And Elandaris hasn’t bothered to shovel the driveway as often as he should, so  _that’s_  all ice, too. Uthvir pulls in and sighs, and treads very carefully across the frozen gravel, and stepping wide to make their way over the ice-rink step, before they finally get onto the porch. They catch their breath for a minute, then, before unlocking the front door and letting themselves inside.

The door doesn’t stick, at least, which is a good sign - sticking doors usually mean the snow on the roof is too heavy, and is bearing it down too much on the house. But as soon as they get in, their heart sinks. There are garbage bags in the front hall, still, and a check of the lightswitch by the door reveals that it remains nonfunctional. Someone took the broken bulbs out of the fixtures on the walls, they see, but didn’t bother to replace them. Uthvir is not a tall elf; they’ll need a stepping stool to reach the fixtures to do it themselves. A check of the garbage bags reveals them to be heavy, too.

The living room light works, at least. And so does one of the two kitchen lights. The floor in the kitchen still hasn’t been fixed. They don’t hold out much hope for the state of the bathroom, and yup, a quick check reveals that it hasn’t even been cleaned. The tub still has a ring on it, and the broken shower curtain is right where it was when they first toured the place.

The master bedroom is empty, and functional, though in all honesty it doesn’t have much to  _dysfunction_  with. The closet door opens and closes, and the overhead light works. The second bedroom doesn’t even have a closet, though it does have a set of broken blinds still hanging in place, and a crack in the window glass that should have been fixed. The furnace is off. Uthvir tries to get it going, but only succeeds in blasting unheated air throughout the little house. There’s a wood burning stove as back-up, though, and a small shed in the backyard that allegedly has a supply of chips for it. They decide to go look, only to find that the back door has iced over and is utterly refusing to budge.

Perfect.

They’ll have to see if they can make it around through the front. Which will probably mean trudging through a lot of snow. Which will mean getting their pants soaked, and if there is any way to be less comfortable right now, pants covered in melting snow is probably the answer.

Or they could try and melt the ice with some carefully employed warming spells.

Decisions, decisions.

It’s too cold to stand around thinking for very long, though, so after a few minutes, they opt for dragging some of the trash bags out and seeing what the path around back looks like. They head back for the front door and try to open it.

The lock  _clicks_  oddly, and it refuses to budge.

“Oh, come  _on,”_  Uthvir protests. They turn and look for Spider-Man, just on the off-chance the doll has gotten into a mood and is doing this. Deciding they ‘shouldn’t go’ or something. But Spider-Man doesn’t usually play coy about that stuff, and they can’t see him lurking anywhere, staring pointedly at them or making the ‘nope’ gesture or anything. After a few more attempts to get the door open, they realize they’re not getting anywhere, and give up on jiggling the handle and trying to manipulate the lock with magic.

Worst comes to worst, they think they could get this thing off of its hinges if they could find a screwdriver somewhere. But that’s a pretty big ‘if’, and in the meantime, they are still trapped inside and it is  _cold._

And they are pregnant. Dammit.

 _Okay, think,_  they tell themselves. Elandaris at least knows where the house is and has been making noise about doing the necessary repairs himself, rather than letting Uthvir hire someone and charge him for it. Which is not a state of affairs Uthvir intends to encourage, but right now, they don’t really know anyone close by who might be able to help. So they scroll through their address book on their phone, and call his number.

It goes to voice mail.

They leave a message. And then after another five minutes, they try again. More voice mail. They head towards the back door again, and consider using magic to melt the ice. The wood looks worryingly flammable, though, and most standard home insurance won’t cover magical accidents. Maybe a hair dryer instead? If they  _had_  one, anyway…

They check the bathroom, but their luck is still out. There’s just a half roll of toilet paper left in there.

Uthvir sighs.

“Well, shit,” they say.

On that note, though, their phone begins to ring. Elandaris Thiel. They answer it, and enjoy a terse conversation about broken locks and broken heaters, and eventually, the man agrees to come around and ‘check things’ for them. He seems utterly convinced that everything is  _just fine_  and that Uthvir is doing things wrong, which is not an attitude they are keen to let fly.

Another ten minutes go by. Uthvir’s ankles are starting to kill them, and there is nowhere comfortable to sit, really. Not even any stairs. They would go back out to the car, which can be warmed up, at least, if they weren’t  _trapped._  But eventually they just give up and find a relatively decent-looking patch of floor next to the living room window.

And then they settle in to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Until they finally hear the sounds of a truck pulling up to the driveway. They pull themselves up, wincing at the pins and needles in their legs, and then watch as Elandaris skates his own way up to the front door.

Which he knocks on.

And then jiggles the lock of.

Uthvir rolls their eyes, and takes their phone out. They watch, from the window, as he proceeds to ignore their call. They highly suspect he would have left after fabricating some asinine excuse at that point - they  _told him_  about the locks, it’s the whole Andruil-damned reason they  _phoned him_  - except that he manages to make eye-contact with them through the front window, as they hold the phone to their ear and do not bother to disguise how thoroughly pissed off they are.

He gives them a once-over, which is kind of odd, but then again sometimes people double-take at the whole ‘heavily pregnant’ thing. And then he heads back to the porch, and actually  _answers his phone._

“The lock is broken,” he tells them.

“Nooo,” Uthvir drawls. “You think?”

They should probably try and be charming, so that he will help them. But unfortunately for Elandaris, Uthvir is pretty certain that they left their last fuck in their apartment, which means their landlord just illegally evicted it.

“I was going to go get a locksmith,” Elandaris assures them. “But I think I can handle this. Hang on a minute.”

He hangs up.

Uthvir follows suit, and forces themselves to take several slow, even breaths. Their back is killing them, and getting all the feeling back in their legs is just reminding them how much their joints ache, too. They keep one hand on the windowsill, and listen as Elandaris ineffectually jiggles at the lock, and then starts, by the sounds of things, bashing at it.

If he breaks their door, Uthvir is making him pay for it.

_If he breaks the door, he will be reluctant to fix it, and we only have one more night in the hotel._

They try not to think to hard about it as the door finally gives a  _crack_  and flies open. It stops just shy of hitting the opposite wall, but only because it smacks into one of the garbage bags instead. Uthvir heads over to inspect the damage, pursing their lips and just praying the the doorframe hasn’t splintered or broken apart.

It hasn’t, to their relief. They push past Elandaris and find that the lock is thoroughly broken, and the top coat of paint has been scraped off, but the handle still works and the frame is only a little damaged. They let out a breath, and then finally redirect their attention towards Elandaris.

Who is standing uncomfortable close.

“Ta-da!” he exclaims, with a grin. He looks them over again, and Uthvir decides that they really dislike the way he does that. It makes all the hairs on the back of their neck stand at attention. “You see? This is what people keep strapping, strong men around for.”

“Oh, well. If you’re volunteering to be my ‘strapping man’, I can come up with a use or two for you,” they reply, in a low, slow voice. Elandaris leers at them a little, and brushes a finger down one of their arms. Uthvir coyly takes his hand, and then  _twists_  it just shy of hospitalization. The man gives a very satisfying yelp and contorts, trying to pull his hand free but clearly taken entirely by surprise.

Uthvir uses the opening to muster enough magic to press him into the wall.

“Listen to me you lying piece of shit,” they say. “I am at the end of my fucking tether. You have had eleven months to get your crap out of my house and get it into the state you  _assured me_  that you would, and I honestly don’t care what stopped you. I doubt it was much. But now you are here, and you are going to work for me, or you will  _wish_  that I had taken you to court.”

They take his keys out from where they had seen him put them into his jacket pocket, and let go of his hand.

“What the fuck?!” he gasps, pained.

“Next time I’ll grab your testicles, and not in the fun way,” they inform him. Then they point at the garbage bags. “Now get this trash out of my house. Load it up in your truck. I can see the flatbed from here, you have room. I want every one of them gone and this place cleaned top to fucking bottom, before I give you back your keys. And if you try anything funny, I will end you, and I will tell the police that you attacked a poor little pregnant elf and then slipped and the ice and cracked your skull.”

Uthvir’s fairly certain that a man like Elandaris has a shitty enough reputation in his community to be worried about that threat. Judging by the way he blanches, and then looks like a skittish deer, they seem to be right.

It makes them feel a little better.

They manage to pass the rest of the morning getting Elandaris to haul trash and at least scrub all the surfaces and cabinets. Luckily, in his laziness he had left his cleaning supplies behind, and with proper supervision, Uthvir manages to get him to do a decent job of it. They don’t set him to repair work, but mainly because that would require tools they don’t have and they don’t trust him to come back once they’ve sent him away. Obviously. But apart from the furnace they don’t need anything  _immediately,_  and when they finally give in and use magic to melt the ice off of the back door, they at send Elandaris out and he does come back with chips for the wood burning stove.

Spider-Man wanders in from the car eventually. Or teleports, or however it is he manages to do that. He won’t tell Uthvir. But he does, and when Elandaris starts to notice the doll, he tenses even further.

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to an empty corner.

“What’s what?” Uthvir replies.

“That…” Elandaris looks back at the corner, and then trails off.

He swallows.

“I thought I saw something,” he admits.

“Don’t try and get out of work by making up spooky stories, I’m not susceptible,” Uthvir says. Declining to mention  _why_  they aren’t, of course.

Fear doesn’t like Elandaris. Not that Uthvir thought he would, be still. He makes a point of trolling the man as he goes about his business, and Uthvir tries not to let on how tired they are, until finally noon rolls around. By then everything is about as clean as they expect he’ll get it. The bathroom is ugly but sterile, the floors are swept and mopped, the stove is cleared out and inside of the fridge and freezer have been scrubbed down. Broken blinds have been removed. Lightbulbs haven’t been replaced, but only because there were no replacements in the house. Elandaris makes a lot of promises to ‘see to things’ and to come back.

Uthvir believes none of them, but they toss him back his keys, and let him go scurrying back down the driveway again. Moving so fast that he slides and then actually  _slams_  into his truck, and fumbles his way inside, before backing out in such a hurry that he nearly rear-ends the neighbour parked across the street.

When he’s gone, Uthvir makes their own way much more carefully out of the house, and down to their car. They have new locks to buy, and they’ll need something soft to rest on, and that will take money. Which they’ll have to get first. Pickpocketing might by the way to go, no one ever expects it from a pregnant person. Even a pregnant elf.

As they start they car, they note Spider-Man sitting in the front seat this time.

The doll very pointedly buckles itself in.

With a sigh, they do the same. Working to get the seatbelt to settle properly around their stomach.

_Safety first._

“Safety first,” they concede.

What. A. Day.

 

~

 

Going into labour is one of the most viscerally unpleasant experiences of Uthvir’s life. 

 

Not least because Spider-Man manages to have an epic freak-out, and nearly keeps them from making it to the hospital, and has them worried the  _entire time_  they’re giving birth that at any moment, their old friend is going to do something Really Conspicuous and get them all into the deepest shit imaginable.

The kind of shit that gets babies taken away from their parents, and haunted dolls incinerated by the chantry, and Uthvir sent to a nice, cozy jail cell right next to Rhapsody’s.

But Spider-Man doesn’t cross the line. Uthvir manages to grit their teeth and get through it, even though it’s one of the most painful things they’ve ever been through. Probably the most painful, in fact, but when you get into the high numbers it’s tricky to tell. The doctor is very nice, at least, and so are most of the nurses in the maternity ward. It’s a chantry hospital, because there wasn’t another one that Uthvir could really get to. But it doesn’t end up being a problem. None of their magic manifests, and while Uthvir can feel Spider-Man’s presence they never see the doll at the hospital, and eventually they end up with a squirming bundle of newborn baby to distract them from everything else.

A baby that is so  _tiny._

Uthvir made a person. A tiny, tiny person, but just as real and living and vital as anyone else in the world.

They hold it very carefully. Marveling. Spider-Man is surprised, for some reason. That’s the clearest impression they get, apart from the usual litany of ‘not safe, not secure, hate hospital’ that had started up when they arrived. The baby cries loud and long, and doesn’t really calm down until the nurses get the poor thing swaddled.

Uthvir has to learn how to do that. The swaddling. They should have learned that earlier, they think. They didn’t prepare enough. Too many other things to do.

What are they… what are they doing with a baby, though? What are they really doing with a  _baby?_

They think of the nursery they’ve been slowly putting together. Money they’ve been scrounging up. The house they’ve been trying to beat into comfortable shape. The legal entanglements that are still snarled up in the Fereldan small claims court.

And now they’re going to have to look after their baby, entirely on their own, they’re going to have to make sure it stays safe and happy and warm and fed, clean and loved and - and…

How are they going to put someone through college?

For the first time in months, as they lie in their hospital bed and try to recover from giving birth, they think of the baby’s sire. The man who had been Rhapsody’s mark, before everything had gone so wrong.

Wealthy son of a corporate empire. Elven.  _Actually_  rich, too, not just ‘well off’. Rhapsody’s plan had been - allegedly - to get some pictures of him in an irrefutable ‘compromised state’, then use them as blackmail in light of the man’s recent engagement. Uthvir kind of thinks he planned on getting them knocked up, though, and then milking  _that_  for even more cash, but without telling them so they wouldn’t refuse. Only, the blackmail plan itself didn’t even work out. The mark’s mother was a lot more shrewd than her son, and she’d had an eye on his activities, too. Rhapsody hadn’t even gotten the footage transferred somewhere safe before it was destroyed, and then wouldn’t you just know it, some of his old crimes were catching up with them and there were police after them, and Rhapsody telling Uthvir to terminate their pregnancy, and Uthvir…

Uthvir maybe giving the cops a hint or two, before they could make it across the Orlesian border.

They doubt Mythal Evanuris is unaware of her grandchild’s existence. Uthvir is pretty certain that their current situation is dependent upon them never, ever,  _ever_  making an issue out of it. And as they don’t really want to see her eldest son again, they’re overall just fine with that. Admittedly, they only saw him for the one night, but they don’t think he’d make a great parent. That whole encounter had just been…

Well.

Anyway.

It crosses their mind, for a hot second. That the Evanurises are rich. Probably because they are on a lot of painkillers at that point, and they’re terrified, and Spider-Man is terrified, too. But then their better senses catch up with them, and they shove the whole idea aside before it can actually get anywhere substantial. However uncertain they might be of their own abilities as a parent, they’re pretty sure that the Number One Bad Parenting thing is to let a bunch of morally bankrupt rich people take your kid and undoubtedly raise them to either be equally awful, or else some kind of live-in bastard servant.

Or worse.

They don’t know exactly where the Evanurises get all of their money - probably no one except their own head-of-the-family does - but they’re pretty sure elven trafficking is part of the deal. They hold their baby a little bit closer, and make soothing sounds, and try not to panic as all the possibilities hit them at once.

But after a while, they calm down. Holding the baby helps. Uthvir counts fingers and toes and little wisps of hair, and wonders if their baby’s eyes are going to stay pale, or if they’ll turn brown like Uthvir’s are. They gently press their fingers to the points of little ears, and breathe in and out, and try not to feel overwhelmed.

They don’t regret their decision.

By the time they make it home from the hospital, though, they haven’t found any real answers.  They actually hesitate for just a minute, as they carefully secure their newborn into their car. Already worried about traffic and driving and making sure they secure everything right, making sure they drive slow but not  _so slow_  that it encourages someone to harass them or causes an accident of its own accord. And then they see Spider-Man, sitting in the backseat. Looking soft and cuddly, like they just came out of the laundry, and watching the baby  _intently._

For the first time in years, they feel a tremor of unease for the presence of their partner.

 _Baby,_  Spider-Man says, though, before reaching out and very gently patting one red mitt against the side of the car seat. The word comes out reverent and kind and just a little bit possessive - but not in a way that frightens them, not in a way that makes them think of  _possession,_  because Uthvir knows the kind that’s in the spirit’s voice. It’s the kind they feel, too.

 _My bab_ y.

“Keep the baby safe,” they instruct.

 _Safety first,_  Spider-Man agrees, and spends the whole car ride next to the baby’s secured seat, while Uthvir drives.

Crossing a driveway has never been so harrowing as the first time they try it with their newborn baby. The gravel is still icy, but they did manage to catch Elandaris while he was coming out of a neighbour’s house, and threatened him into breaking up the ice on the bottom step for them. They’re glad to see no signs of the man, though, as they make their way successfully through the front door. The house is cold. It’s been days since they were back. They keep the baby bundled and use a little bit of magic, just until they can get the wood stove going. Their body still aches, healing magic or no, but not badly enough to stop them from doing what they need to.

They know they’re in a bad way emotionally, though, when they start wishing that Rhapsody wasn’t in jail. True, if he wasn’t they probably wouldn’t have gotten this far. And they’d worked really hard to keep him from finding out about this house. But…

Sometimes, he was better than nothing.

The nursery isn’t even finished yet. And Uthvir takes one look at it, and knows that they aren’t going to be able to stomach sleeping in a different room from the baby. That was a pipe dream, maybe. An optimistic assumption about their own frame of mind, and their personal degree of anxiety. But the master bedroom doesn’t get as warm as the spare, and Uthvir still doesn’t have a bedframe. They’ve been sleeping on a foam mattress, single-sized. So their first night home they drag it into the nursery, and sleep with the baby nestled carefully onto it. Spider-Man on the baby’s other side, far enough away that the doll isn’t a safety hazard. Not that they think he would  _let_  the baby smother themselves with him or anything, but still.

They don’t really sleep. Every time they drift off they wake up again, confused and concerned, and compelled to check and make sure the baby’s still breathing. And that’s even when they’re not waking up for feedings and changings and odd baby noises.

It’s  _exhausting._

They thought they had enough food and supplies to give them a week’s grace, too, to work up the nerve to actually use the daycare situation they’d managed to arrange. There is a ‘new parents’ group, Dalish mostly, that helps watch newborns when their parents still have to work or do other things. It’s not an uncommon situation for a lot of elves. But after they get going Uthvir’s pretty sure they only have enough stuff for four days, tops, and then they’ll be out of money again. They’re not a big fan of breastfeeding, but at least it means they don’t have to start buying formula right away. But it also means that they can’t really be away from the baby that long, either. Baby needs to eat, milk needs to go somewhere, and Uthvir is terrified of taking their new little dependent out into the world so soon.

They wish they had enough money to buy one of those chest-slings. The really nice ones, with the soft material, that makes it easy to basically just wear your baby as you go about other things. But all the ones they’ve been able to find are just more than they can spare the money for.

What they  _need_  is a stable source of income. Something that they don’t have to constantly be working at. The house was going to be that originally, but now they need to live in it, so it can’t be. Thanks to Ferelden criminal law, their record prevents them from taking out a loan against it, too. Because Rhapsody was into fraud, and also into wrecking Uthvir’s credit rating.

They think about the house’s master bedroom, that’s currently empty. Subletting  _would_ provide give them a steady stream of income…

But that’s a terrible idea. Spider-Man can be subtle, sure, he hid from Rhapsody pretty well, but Uthvir doesn’t think he’ll manage to hold back with a baby in the house. And  _they_  don’t think they’ve got the nerve to have some stranger living with them while they’re trying to look after a small, vulnerable newborn. They can barely keep from jumping out of their skin every time something  _cracks_  in the ice and snow outside.

The idea sticks with them through the second night, though. As the clock ticks by and Uthvir knows that they need to come up with a better solution, something they can handle long-term, because this situation isn’t exactly changing any time soon. They wake up and go through their new morning rituals, amazed at the little changes that already seem to be happening with their baby, and at how  _few_  changes seem to be happening with their aches and pains. It’s five in the morning when the baby falls asleep again, and Uthvir finally feels brave enough to leave them in the crib they managed to assemble a week ago, to check their e-mail and their fundraising page.

A sigh escapes them as they check their search history, and find out that Spider-Man was at his usual antics again. The list of searches is fairly predictable by now, if still baffling:

THENVUNIN

FIND THENVUNIN

THENVUNIN EMAIL

THENVUNIN BIRDS

THENVUNIN MIRENA

MIRENA CLOTHES

THENVUNIN MIRENA BIRDS CLOTHES

THENVUNIN ADDRESS

Aaand similiar. Uthvir is pretty certain they didn’t leave the capslock on either. They delete the entire history after double-checking to make sure that their doll did not, in fact, sign them up for any sketchy dating websites. But nothing detrimental seems to have happened, just a lot of visits to pages with pictures of birds in photoshopped formal wear.

“One day,” they mutter. “I am going to meet some poor elf who actually happens to be named ‘Thenvunin’, and you are going to have to promise not to stalk them or something.”

 _Not a problem._ _  
_

“Suuure it’s not.”

With another sigh, they pick up the doll, and carry him out with them into the kitchen. At least he’s not streaming horror movies for ‘inspiration’ anymore. Weird as this is, Uthvir’s willing to take it as an improvement.

Until further notice, anyway.

Their fundraising page is dead. Every now and again they get a few dollars, but they aren’t exactly reputable, and they know it and so do the people who put up warnings about them potentially being a known scam artist. They visiting one of the parenting forums they frequent, checking some things and refreshing themselves on stuff they’d already learned, but just want to double-check. Again, though, they find their thoughts drifting to the matter of the master bedroom.

It’s not as if they haven’t lived with veritable strangers before. Rhapsody was generally more fond of borrowing couches than paying rent, and a lot of his friends were less-than-reputable. Uthvir knows a lot of red flags to look for. And Spider-Man might be a liability, but he’d also be a boon in a way, too. He’s even better at reading dangerous types than they are sometimes, and he wouldn’t let anything happen to the baby. Uthvir’d always been safer as a kid when he was around. It was really only when they started getting too old to cart a doll in their arms, that they started having serious problems again.

They mull the idea over before they decide to go check on the baby. Then they set it aside.

It sticks with them, though, as they juggle newborn care with figuring out their other options, and trying to plan ahead. Eventually, they make their first trip out of the house with the baby in tow. The car seat doubles as a carrier, so Uthvir carries it, going out to pick up formula and detergent and more wet wipes. There are never enough baby safe wet wipes, it turns out. Spider-Man manages to shrink down to about a quarter of his usual size and wedges himself into the carrier, but the baby sleeps through most of it and doesn’t fuss too much. Despite Uthvir’s worries, the trip goes pretty smoothly, with the main problem just being how tired they feel. The car seat might  _work_  but it’s not a light model, and there’s nowhere for them to really distribute the weight except for straight down their forearms.

It’s workable, though. As long as they can keep finding ways to bring in money, they’ll manage.

But not long-term.

Long-term, they need something better. They need something to work with, if they’re going to do this differently from how Rhapsody did.

They think about it more as they feed the baby. Staring down at the little face. Eyes that have turned the same brown as their own. Wisps of hair the same colour as their coming in, too. They brush a finger down their baby’s cheek, and let their thoughts shift towards more immediate matters. Like names.

“I guess I can’t just call you ‘Baby’ forever,” they muse. “You’ll probably start finding it embarrassing when you get a little older.”

The baby blinks, and just focuses on breakfast.

Uthvir checks a few baby name databases, searching for inspiration. There are a lot of names. Uthvir has no idea what would suit their kid, though. What would be best? A short name? A long one? A traditional name? A more modern one? Something classic? Something unique? Something with good nickname potential? They don’t really have anyone to name the baby  _after,_  so they can at least knock that option off the list. Spider-Man seems to think that  _he_  should be naming the baby, but Uthvir’s pretty sure that they should draw some kind of line there. They know a lot about spirits, but that’s still just enough to know that they can be surprising, and names have power. Uthvir’s pretty sure they do, anyway.

Finally, they just decide to open up a database to a random page, and scroll through until something catches their eye.

They end up on the ‘L’ page. The first name their brain sticks on is  _Lavellan._

It feels strangely of familiar, somehow. But when Uthvir googles it the only things that come up are some random elves’ facebook pages, and a Dalish clan’s website. It’s an old name. Traditional, but not so common on that front that it feels stuffy or pretentious, or like an infringement either. And it has a few possible meanings, but the one they like best is simply ‘friend’. Friends are good to have. Uthvir thinks of their own abiding loneliness, and Spider-Man’s friendship. And now the baby’s, too. Granted, they’re a parent, not a friend. Those are different categories. But maybe… maybe it’ll be good luck.

Who knows?

“What do you think of Lavellan, Baby?” they ask.

The baby doesn’t offer a lot of feedback, but Uthvir figures they can test drive the name for a little while. See how it fits.

Time doesn’t really stop for them, though. And in the end, that makes up their mind about more things than not. In between looking after Lavellan, they get the house into some better shape. Bit by bit. They put out an ad for a subtenant. Even if someone suitable manifests, though, it probably won’t happen overnight. Uthvir doesn’t think many people are eager to share living space with someone else’s crying baby, and their standards for this situation are  _not_  going to be low, either. They go on the hunt for work they can do from their laptop. Slim pickings. They try setting up a new donation page, and in the midst of that they get a call from the lawyer they’d retained, updating them on the situations with Elandaris and their old landlord. Two other potential avenues to make some money by, but again, not ones with  _immediate_  returns.

The next day, they start looking into some loans that they know full well to be sketchy. But there’s only so much they can get away with in a community they plan on actually living in, long-term, and their government assistance won’t kick in until next month. And it will be voided again if they get caught committing any crimes in the meantime. So, they go poking around, digging through some of Rhapsody’s old contacts (insofar as they can without giving away who they are) and following a few leads until they find a deal they can live with. Interest rates mean they’ll be paying back three times the loan’s worth, in the end, and that’s  _if_  they get it done in a timely fashion. But Uthvir’s out of better options. They take the deal, and get enough money to keep them more or less afloat for the first month of parenthood.

Lavellan grows what seems like a remarkable amount to them in that month. She loses her newborn wrinkly-ness, and becomes incomprehensibly cute. She also refuses to sleep at what seem like perfectly reasonable times to Uthvir, and perfects her ability to cry loudly enough to wake the dead, and starts taking more of an obvious interest in her surroundings. Beyond just Spider-Man and Uthvir, anyway.

The first few prospective tenants who show up leave almost as soon as they meet her, though. Uthvir doesn’t know what they expected. They mentioned the baby situation right there in the ad, but they also know that a startlingly high number of people don’t actually bother to  _read_  beyond skimming for key words. The third interested party sticks around and shows more interest, but Spider-Man dislikes her, so Uthvir declines her. So it goes for half a month. They get some interest, and some people who try to wriggle down the already-low rent because of Lavellan’s presence, and others who decline the setup, and a few more who get vetoed by either Spider-Man or Uthvir’s instincts, and willingness to prioritize those.

And then it happens.

They get a call from a man named Sethtaren Something-Or-Other, who’s interested in the room. Uthvir lays out the basics for him over the phone, pretty much just reiterating what was in the ad. Full use of communal areas of the house, no overnight visitors unless it’s cleared with them, a private room - yes, with a door - and shared bathroom, and use of the storage shed around back. No garage but there is a sheltered parking spot, and the back shed has room for a bike. Sethtaren seems interested, and Uthvir schedules a showing, and then has to hang up to go change Lavellan. The whole thing doesn’t really seem remarkable, and Sethtaren didn’t both to ask about the baby, so they’re putting high odds on him showing up and then just turning around and heading back the way he came. Those odds double when the car that pulls up seems a lot nicer than Uthvir expected.

The man who gets out of it is also a  _total babe._

10/10, complete knock out. Uthvir double-takes through the window at the sight of him. Tall, broad-shouldered, and long-haired, wearing what look to be  _tailored_  winter clothes, with a bright purple scarf around his neck, and legs that manage to look fantastic even in a pair of matching purple pants. Matching purple pants that look suspiciously like  _velvet._  Uthvir watches the man as he takes stock of the house. They can see him frowning from the window, but even if they couldn’t, they think the end results are still written all over his body language. He doesn’t like it. He frowns at the exterior and he frowns at the front steps, and though Uthvir can’t see it, they’re pretty sure he frowns at the door, too.

They open it before he can knock. Holding Lavellan with one arm, wearing a milk-stained shirt and a pair of jeans.

The man blinks at them rapidly several times.

Damn. He has pretty eyelashes, too.

“Sethtaren?” Uthvir asks.

The man stares at Lavellan for a moment, before clearing his throat and shaking his head.

“Thenvunin, actually,” he says. “Sethtaren is my fiance. He made some arrangements on my behalf.”

… _What._

“I’m sorry, your name is  _Thenvunin?”_ they can’t help but ask.

The man nods with some obvious uncertainty at their incredulity. Only a lifetime of dealing with bizarre and stressful situations on the fly keeps Uthvir from looking conspicuously around for Spider-Man. They really,  _really_  hope that their partner did not hear that - but they know the odds are low.

“…Yes…?” Thenvunin confirms. He looks at Lavellan again, and something in his countenance softens a bit as she snuffles at Uthvir’s neck. “Is that your baby?”

“No, I stole her,” Uthvir says. At his alarmed look, though, they amend the bad joke. “Kidding. Yes, this is Lavellan. I mentioned her in the ad, but I don’t know if Sethtaren read that part or not. A lot of people seem to skip it, for some reason.”

Thenvunin stares a second more, and then looks at Uthvir, and clears his throat again.

“I’m sure he just… forgot to mention it,” he says.

“Would you like to see the place?” they offer. Before it suddenly occurs to them that it might be a bad idea. But the door is open and the air is cold, and they don’t want to stand around letting their baby catch a chill. Thenvunin agrees, and gingerly steps inside. Uthvir lets him close the door behind him. They take a quick, casual look around for Spider-Man, but the doll is out of sight. Uthvir can feel a sort of… general  _intentness_  though, which probably means he’s watching them from somewhere.

They resettle Lavellan against their opposite shoulder, take a deep breath, and start showing Thenvunin the house. Starting with the front rooms, obviously, and then going through the whole place. Not that there’s a ton to see. Thenvunin scrutinizes most everything with a frown, but every now and again he looks at Lavellan, and stops frowning. Babies have that effect on some people, though. Uthvir lets him check the closet size for the room and tsk over the house’s heating situation, and even lets him duck his head inside their room, too. He frowns again, and they feel a rush of defensiveness. It might be kind of shabby, but they’re working on it. They didn’t have a lot be going with, all things considered. They find themselves almost blurting out explanations, for some unfathomable reason. But then they stop. What’s the point? It’s pretty obvious this guy has enough money to be picky, his car is likely worth more than the rent they’d ask. He’ll probably be gone in a few minutes and Uthvir will never see him again, and they’ll be lucky if Spider-Man doesn’t throw a snit fit over it.

“And it is just you and the baby?” he asks them, after they pull the door to their room shut.

“Yup,” Uthvir confirms. “Just us, and a few toys.”

Thenvunin sniffs, and looks around at the walls. Which don’t exactly have much on them, except for peeling paint. He glances at Uthvir, and then again at Lavellan.

“Not what you’re looking for?” they guess.

It makes him frown again.

“…Not  _normally,”_  he says. “But this would be a temporary situation. I just need a place to stay before the wedding. Sethtaren is being deployed, you see. We’re getting married as soon as he gets back.”

“Nice,” Uthvir replies, and actually feels their hopes get marginally higher. “How long would that be?”

“Six months,” Thenvunin tells them. “If I’m being honest, this place is…”

He looks at Lavellan, and then sighs.

“Well it is not  _perfect._  But for six months it should do nicely, provided you are amenable to that situation?”

They think it over. Spider-Man is a bigger potential problem than usual, in this case. But he might also calm down a bit with a ‘Thenvunin’ having been found. Possibly even get over his obsession. And if he doesn’t, Uthvir can try being firm with him. That usually works. Plus, it is just half a year - but half a year where they’d be getting in influx of cash, and time to find other arrangements. And whilst Thenvunin seems easily distracted by the baby, it’s not in a way that’s setting off any alarm bells in Uthvir’s head. In fact, while it could just be that his overall hotness is misleading them, he seems like the best possible candidate they’ve had so far. The only off-putting things are really that he seems too well-off for this situation. But if it’s  _temporary,_  that actually makes more sense. People end up in all kinds of odd circumstances when they’re inbetween.

They find themselves agreeing before they can think the better of it. Even before they’ve completely checked out the man’s credentials.

They’re on the verge of thinking that Spider-Man isn’t going to make an issue of things by the time Thenvunin gets back out to the driveway, but just when they’re thanking their lucky stars, the man’s car brakes down.

His fancy, four-wheel drive vehicle, that probably had nothing at all wrong with it five minutes ago.

Uthvir feels a familiar presence, and looks over to see Spider-Man watching from the front window with them.

“Did you do that?” they ask.

 _Thenvunin,_  Spider-Man replies, in a tone of - of all things -  _relief._

“He’s going to move in, don’t be a creeper,” they warn.

_Thenvunin is here!_

“Yeah, that’s his name, but it’s a coincidence. Alright? What did we talk about?”

_Thenvunin!_

“Yes, Thenvunin - what did we talk about with you and people named Thenvunin and not stalking them? Remember when you told me that wouldn’t be a problem?”

Spider-Man doesn’t really whistle innocently, but he manages to give off a remarkably similar vibe anyway, as Thenvunin gives up on his car and makes his way back to the house. Uthvir ends up having to convince him to try it again, rather than calling a tow truck. When the man reluctantly treks back out, they convince Spider-Man to let him go by reiterating  _several times_ that he’s going to come back. The spirit eventually relents, and Thenvunin’s engine starts again. He drives back to wherever he came from, and Uthvir actually has to take a minute to convince themselves that it wasn’t a dream. They have a subtenant, and he is named ‘Thenvunin’, and he seems to be loaded, and also fond of babies, and apart from disliking everything and probably thinking he’s better than Uthvir and that Uthvir is a shameful parent who sleeps on the floor with their baby, there doesn’t actually seem to be anything wrong with the guy, either.

 _And_  he’s easy on the eyes.

“Baby, I think our luck’s looking up,” they inform Lavellan.

 _Thenvunin,_  Spider-Man agrees.

 

~

 

The weather improves. Lavellan is getting better at wriggling her way around, when the furnace gives out again. It happens in the late evening, just before the weekend, and on the same day that the temperature decides to plummet into an unexpected cold snap. Uthvir treks out to the back shed to get more fuel for the stove, and by the time they get back inside, they can already feel the heat leeching out through the badly insulated windows and the gap created by the warped back door frame.

By the next day, every room beyond the main one is freezing. Uthvir calls around, but the best they can get is a repair man to come the next day. The master bedroom is the coldest, but the nursery is too cold for Lavellan, too. So Thenvunin helps them move the crib into the main room, and all three of them more or less camp out there, while Thenvunin takes his online courses and Uthvir practices sewing, and Lavellan has blanket time. Chewing on Spider-Man’s arm, and trying to figure out how to roll over.

After lunch, Uthvir finds they feel comfortable enough to leave Lavellan with a freely-volunteering Thenvunin for an hour, to go get some groceries and also to shoplift an electric space heater from one of the big chain home supply stores. They present it to Thenvunin when they get back.

“This should make your room slightly less of a fridge,” they announce.

“Oh!” he says. “I couldn’t possibly, it should go in the nursery.”

Uthvir waves him off.

“Lavellan and I can just camp out here for now, she won’t mind,” they insist.

Thenvunin hesitates.

“How much do I owe you, then?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Uthvir insists. “I’m the landlord, and I promised you a liveable space. This is a much cheaper option than taking a day’s payment off of your rent, trust me.”

Thenvunin looks puzzled, and Uthvir takes the opening to go and set the heater up in his room for him. They make certain its working, before going and giving in to the urge to check on Lavellan. But somehow they weren’t nearly as worried as they can get, and of course, she’s absolutely fine when they see her. Still taking her post-lunch nap, in the warm footie pyjamas that Thenvunin made for her.

Of course it takes a while for the heater to actually warm the master bedroom up again, so Uthvir doesn’t think twice about Thenvunin still lingering in the main room. He finishes up his classes and insists upon making dinner, which is fine by Uthvir. Their culinary knowledge can best be described as ‘patchy’. They know how to make most microwave food edible and they can do a lot of campfire-style cooking and barbecue. But Thenvunin can make, like, little finicky dumplings and crepes and fresh pasta and all kinds of things that make Uthvir’s mouth water.

If they are being completely honest with themselves, it’s not the only thing he does that makes Uthvir’s mouth water.

Before dinner he starts a load of laundry, and changed into a pair of thigh-high purple socks. With golden ducks on them. And a very comfortable-looking, bright yellow sweater dress. Uthvir stairs before they can catch themselves, bizarrely riveted by the little ducks trailing up Thenvunin’s legs, and the way the collar of his dress slouches down one shoulder. Spider-Man perks up in interest, too.

_Sexy ducks._

…What?

Before they can process  _that_  weird sentiment, Thenvunin folds his arms defensively, though.

“I know they hardly match but I am doing  _laundry,”_  he insists. “And I need to keep my legs warm, and it is easy to fit the apron over this-”

“You look good,” Uthvir blurts.

There’s an awkward pause, and they scramble to recover themselves from the potential creeper-ness of that remark.

“I mean, I think it matches fine,” they clarify. “It’s cheerful. You look… cheerful. Bright colours suit you.”

Thenvunin clears his throat, and looks away a little.

“Well, no they don’t,” he says. “I look best in cool tones. Greys and blues and some greens, but only if they match my eyes. But I do  _like_  bright colours. My mother over-indulged me a lot when I was younger, so I never had to learn what actually looked good on me until I started dating, and I’m afraid I’ve built up some bad habits. It’s nice of you to say, though…”

Uthvir frowns.

“No, you look good,” they insist, awkwardness giving way to a sudden need to make certain he knows. Because he does. Yes, the ducks are definitely…  _whimsical,_  but it’s not like that’s a bad thing. “Truly, the colours suit you.”

“Blonds should not wear yellow,” Thenvunin says, though he seems slightly less convinced than he had a moment ago.

“Says who?” they wonder.

“Oh, all kinds of places,” Thenvunin insists. “But mainly the Arlathan Style Guide, and… um. People who have given me advice before, of course…”

“But not your mother, the fashion designer?” they guess, catching something that they don’t like the looks of. Though they aren’t really sure what it is, yet. Thenvunin shrugs, and looks uncomfortable. So they let it go, and instead let their focus return to giving Lavellan her own dinner-in-a-bottle.

“Just for the record, I think you can pull off whatever colours you like.”

“Well… thank you,” Thenvunin says, and Uthvir think he actually does look a little pleased, before he makes his way into the kitchen. Which starts warming up a bit more itself when the stove gets going, and delicious smells start wafting out. Lavellan fusses, as she often tends to when she smells cooking. She’s curious about it, Uthvir suspects. But still too small to really find out about it for herself. They let her chew on one of their fingers instead, checking her gums. Most of the parenting websites they checked had said that human babies don’t start teething until around six months, but finding out if elven babies were any different had proved more difficult. They think it must be about the same, though, just because no one has seen fit to mention otherwise.

Lavellan gums their knuckle and drools a lot, and then makes a face that they know means she’s going to need a diaper change very shortly. They change her on the floor, using a slight barrier to deter the smell from mingling in with the kitchen. By the time they’ve got her settled again, dinner is ready. Thenvunin’s phone rings, as Uthvir’s helping dish up.

He hesitates, just a moment. And then ignores it.

“It’s bad timing,” he tells Uthvir. “I’ll apologize to him later, but this shouldn’t be left to sit out, it doesn’t reheat well.”

“Of course,” they agree, easy enough.

They are entirely biased, and have only talked to the man once, but they sort of dislike Sethtaren anyway.

Thenvunin turns off his phone, and they have dinner together. Uthvir does the washing up, and afterwards they agree to watch a movie with the subtitles on and the sound low, so that it doesn’t disturb Lavellan too much. She’s sleepy now, though, and Uthvir gets her settled into her crib with her little hood on, angled so that the headboard of her crib blocks the television, and she falls asleep staring up at the lights reflected across the ceiling.

Thenvunin nods off about halfway through the movie himself.

Leaving Uthvir to look at him, while Spider-Man lurks behind the couch, and exudes that same sort of possessiveness that he sometimes directs towards Lavellan.

And sometimes directs towards Uthvir, too.

_My Thenvunin._

“What do you mean?” they ask, quietly. “How did you… who is he, to you?”

Is it just a coincidence, really?

 _When we were partners_ ,Spider-Man says.  _Thenvunin was ours._

Uthvir lets out a long breath. When they were ‘partners’, aka the weird set of fairytales and dreams that Spider-Man had used to entertain them as a kid. To win their trust, which luckily turned out to not be the sort of thing that the chantry warned against, in the end. Uthvir probably would have been a sitting duck, if Spider-Man actually meant them any harm.

And now that he’s talking about it again, Uthvir can vaguely remember their daydreams about a handsome prince that they were supposed to rescue, sometimes. Spider-Man always described him as if he’d be small and kind of sickly, though, and in desperate need of protection. Uthvir sometimes daydreamed about rescuing him and having him turn out to be the heir to a vast fortune, and he’d decide to marry Uthvir and they’d go off and live happily ever after.

So is that it? Did Spider-Man just fixate upon this old daydream, and decide he had to find Uthvir a ‘Thenvunin’ to make a happily-ever-after work out?

It’s weirdly sweet, in a kind of creepy way. And Uthvir wouldn’t exactly turn down Thenvunin. But the prince is already engaged, and is going to be gone in a few months - and Uthvir can’t let Spider-Man get weird about it.

“We don’t own him, partner,” they remind the doll, quietly.

Spider-Man seems to waver, at that. The television goes dark. Uthvir turns it off before it can get damaged, as all the room plummets into shadow.

 _…No,_  Spider-Man finally concedes, with all the relish of someone pulling teeth.  _But yes. Thenvunin is our Thenvunin._

Uthvir sighs.

At least they got  _some_  concession, there.

They wait for Spider-Man to recede enough for some light to start creeping back in through the windows, and for their eyes to adjust. Then they get up, and check on Lavellan. And after a moment of contemplating his slumped, resting form, they whisper a mild charm that lightens weight, and go and scoop Thenvunin up off the couch. He sighs a little, but doesn’t wake as they carry him into the master bedroom, and tuck him up underneath the covers.

“Sweet dreams,” they say, very softly. Talking to Thenvunin’s sleeping face, but also directing the request towards their partner, too.

After all, it’s the least they can do to make up for some things.

 

~

 

It’s still cold out when Uthvir finally manages to get the furnace fixed again. 

They’re probably going to have to save up for a replacement, which is an intimidating prospect; currently, every dime they get just keeps going into the things they and Lavellan already need. But for now, the furnace is working, so they count that as a win. Lavellan is making strides in her development, getting bigger at a rate that Uthvir finds fascinating and relieving and faintly alarming by turns. She has figured out rolling over, and has moved on to teething. And Thenvunin is an ideal tenant, paying his rent on time every time, and continuing to show Uthvir how to stitch and sew whenever they can spare a free minute for it.

He’s made Lavellan another set of pyjamas, in the meanwhile. And Uthvir has put together a place-mat, which is… less impressive, and slightly lopsided, but one thing they will say for having a baby is that it’s given them a new appreciation for taking baby steps of progress with things, too. And at least the place-mat keeps Lavellan’s tray relatively clean.

This morning has been a good one. Thenvunin was up late last night, they heard him when they got up to soothe Lavellan. Talking on his phone, just barely audible through the walls. They aren’t surprised when he doesn’t wake up at his usual hour, and in a fit of domestic inspiration, they decide to make enough breakfast for him to have some, too. Nothing fancy, but. They can do pancakes. Pancakes even reheat, so, they cook a few stacks, and set some aside for when their handsome tenant wakes up.

Lavellan sucks on her teething ring atop her baby blanket, while Spider-Man appears at one of the kitchen seats, only to disappear again a few minutes later.

He better not be bothering Thenvunin, Uthvir thinks. Or spying on him again. Twice now they’ve found the doll hanging around the door to the man’s room. Usually at night, just for that extra creepy factor. One day he’s going to terrify poor Thenvunin on his way to the bathroom or something, and Uthvir is going to feel terrible about it.

They’re just putting the last pancake from the pan when they hear a sudden clatter from one of the living room windows. Loud enough to startle them. The pancake drops to the floor, and Lavellan makes a startled sound. Uthvir bends to scoop up the ruined food - just one pancake, not too big of a tragedy - and is about to go check on the noise when they hear the distinctive sound of a window  _opening._

Their heart leaps into their throat, and they drop both spatula and pancake in favour of hurrying towards the living room. Indistinct visions of some daytime burglar or something deciding to break into the house.

They’re not expecting to see Spider-Man, settled on the window ledge, next to an  _absolutely massive_  brown raptor.

Like… really big.

Vulture-sized.

 _Is_  it a vulture? Uthvir can’t help the odd, random thought, as their mind stalls for what to do in this kind of situation. The bird is very near to Spider-Man. In fact it seems to be contemplating the doll with some interest; tilting its head, and clacking its beak a little, as Spider-Man slumps beside the open window that’s letting in all the cold air and wildlife and  _why did they open the window?!_

 _Dumb bird,_  is they answer Uthvir gets, with a vague impression of mingled fondness and dislike.

… _What?_

The bird turns its head towards them, then. Claws clacking on the window sill. Uthvir should… get a broom, maybe? Chase it back outside? They have barely entertained the thought, though, when it spreads its wings and  _launches_  itself towards them with an ungodly noise that makes their blood run cold.

Uthvir turns tail, and flees back into the kitchen. They scoop up their baby as they flee from the definitely-big-enough-to-eat-babies bird, and race for the back door. The bird squawks at them, talons clattering against the back of a dining room chair, wings flailing while it tries to gain balance.

 _Spider-Man, do something!_  They demand. Lavellan reaches a curious hand in the direction of the bird, and the back door sticks, and the pan Uthvir left forgotten on the stove starts to smoke.

The knob for the stove clicks ‘off’.

 _Something about the bird!!!_  they think more frantically at their partner. Who has apparently  _lost his damn mind_  because he let a wild animal into the house. The house where their baby is.

And then they hear Thenvunin’s door opening.

Their heart sinks and lifts at once. Thenvunin could help! Thenvunin could also get mauled by a bird. Before Uthvir can call out a warning to him, though, he calls first. Sounding sleep-addled and vaguely alarmed.

“Screecher?!”

The effect is instantaneous. The bird lets loose another horrible cry, and gives up trying to perch on the kitchen chair in favour of launching itself into the hall. Wings flapping aggressively to keep it aloft, and Uthvir can only try and call out a warning before Thenvunin hurries to the kitchen doorway, and collides with the animal.

“No!” Uthvir shouts in alarm, expecting to see talons rend flesh, or beaks tear at sensitive skin.

In their defense, they don’t have much experience with animals.

Lavellan echoes their startled cry but bursting into tears herself. But as Uthvir tries to figure out what they could do to help - can’t put down the baby, can’t leave Thenvunin to fend for himself, nothing close at hand except maybe they could hit the bird with the skillet??? - the man makes a tutting noise, and catches the bird in his hands.

Like, literally catches. He closes his hands around its wings and holds it like a football.

“Screecher!” he exclaims again. His hair is still mussed from sleep, with his eye mask pushed up onto his forehead, and his pyjamas all rumpled and askew. The bird, rather than attempting to peck his fingers off or go for his eyes or something, makes an odd little ‘chirrup’ sound and rubs its head against his chin.

“What on  _earth…?”_  Thenvunin says, as Uthvir reflexively tries to calm Lavellan, Who is still crying, because Nanae Shouted. Their brain seems to have abandoned trying to parse the situation for a moment, as Thenvunin looks worriedly at them, and then back at the bird.

“How did you get in!?” he finally asks the bird.

Which reminds Uthvir of the answer. They look towards the living room; but Spider-Man has gone. Another check of the room places him at the top of the fridge. Watching the proceedings with some discreet interest.

_Thenvunin happy._

Uthvir almost screams. Almost. It would be too out-of-place and it would probably upset Lavellan more and it might startle the bird into attacking… although they’re beginning to think the bird might not be the wild animal they took it for, as it aggressively attempts to nuzzle Thenvunin, and Thenvunin calls it ‘Screecher’ again and declares it to be a ‘naughty bird’.

“You are supposed to be with Nanae,” he says.

‘Screecher’ warbles something that seems like it wants to be totally innocent. But coming from a large, clawed predator, it just seems weird.

“Yes you  _are,”_  Thenvunin insists. “Do not look at me like that! Seth is allergic to birds, I told you we had to make special arrangements before you could come. Did you break out? Poor Nanae, they’re probably looking all over for you…”

He trails off, expression turning guilty.

Lavellan finally calms down enough that her crying breaks off into sniffles. Uthvir rocks her a bit, and then clears their throat.

“Um,” they say.

Cold air sinks through the house from the open window. The kitchen smells like burnt pancake bits, and the finished stack is cooling on the counter. Thenvunin and the bird both turn to look at them, and the embarrassment in the man’s expression increases tenfold.

Uthvir defaults into lying, first. They’re going to blame a lifetime’s experience on that.

“I burnt a pancake, and I opened a window to try and… air things out a little… and it, uh. Got in,” they say.

Thenvunin’s brow furrows.

“A window in the living room?” he asks.

They think quickly.

“The kitchen ones stuck,” they say.

Lavellan chews on her fist, and Thenvunin looks at the fallen spatula and mangled pancake, and shakes his head a little.

“My goodness,” he says. “That must have been frightening! I am so, so sorry. But you needn’t worry. This is Screecher, my pet bird. I’ve kept him for years. He’s quite friendly, especially to children, he wouldn’t hurt Lavellan. I left him with my nanae, just until Seth and I could make all our arrangements. But he’s very… attached. Well, some birds get like that. I suppose he must have broken out and come to find me. How he does it, I’ll never know. He used to do the same thing every time I started a new school year. Here, just let me… I’ll just go close the window, shall I?”

Uthvir blinks, and then manages a slightly disconcerted nod.

Thenvunin is already moving, though. Still carrying the large predator around like a football, quietly scolding it again, before tucking it under one arm - with the same sort of gentleness he typically uses for holding Lavellan - and reaching up to slide the living room window shut again. While his back his turned, Uthvir takes a moment to glare at Spider-Man.

 _How did you even know that was a pet?_  they demand.

They get the mental equivalent of a shrug back.

_Dumb bird belongs to Thenvunin._

Ugh.

Spirits.

_It could have hurt Lavellan!_

_No._

Spider-Man manages to, in a single word, somehow convey both the impression that  _no,_  the bird wouldn’t  _attempt_  to hurt Lavellan, and also  _no,_  Spider-Man would not have  _let_  it hurt Lavellan. The last point mollifies Uthvir, just a little bit. Granted, on one level, Spider-Man is just a soft doll. But it can do other things, of course, and some of the unexpected feelings of betrayal ease just a little. The bird hadn’t even gotten close to their baby, but Spider-Man seems wholly convinced that if anything along those lines  _had_  happened, he would have intervened.

 _We will talk about this more later,_  they decide, as Thenvunin comes back.

“There we go, I’ll bring the heater out to help warm things back up,” the man declares. He hesitates for a moment, then. “Erm. I know pets are not allowed, and I really did not intend for… any of this, but, it might take me a while to figure out what to do with Screecher now…”

Uthvir blinks. Gently, they push Lavellan’s hand down from her mouth, and offer her one of their fingers to chew on.

“Can’t you just send it back to your nanae?” they wonder.

Thenvunin’s expression twists, just a little.

“Well,” he says. “Well…. the thing is, my nanae did not… they haven’t  _entirely_  approved of my marrying Seth. You see. They don’t like him very much. So, they don’t… exactly know where I am. But either way, if Screecher could break loose once then they can break loose again. I will have to see if I can find somewhere closer, maybe so I could visit him? That would probably keep him from trying to escape. Maybe some sort of bird daycare…”

He trails off.

Uthvir’s eyebrows slowly migrate upwards.

His family disapproves? That… actually explains some things.

The man looks intensely nervous. After a few months of living together, though, and having him help where he didn’t need to, and even right now feeling grateful to him for resolving the Terrifying Bird Attack, Uthvir doesn’t think they’re even capable of getting on his case about anything, though. Are they worried? Yes. Are they angry? No.

The Demon Bird warbles at them.

Lavellan tries to make the sound back.

“Well, I guess, that’s fine,” they decide. “I mean… things happen?”

Thenvunin offers them a relieved smile.

“Thank you!” he exclaims. “I shall put Screecher in my room, and go out and get a cage for the time being. I won’t coop them up but they shouldn’t be roaming around at night, at least. I’ll have to make a space for it. But just leave the door shut while I’m out, and it should be fine. I’m so sorry this happened, I didn’t mean for it at all.”

 

“Sure… of course not…” they agree.

 

Thenvunin gives them another grateful look, and then offers Lavellan a smile, before hurrying his pet away to his room. He moves the heater out into the hall before he closes the door.

Uthvir has to sit down for a second, they think. They cuddle Lavellan, and drop into the chair that Screecher had been scrabbling at before. There are long, deep talon marks in the wood now, they note.

…Well, at least it looks kind of cool?

When Thenvunin emerges from his room again, he leaves behind some protesting squawks, and then the distinctive sound of sharp things scraping along the back of a door. He enters the kitchen with an apologetic look, shrinking in on himself.

“The door will probably need repainting,” he says. “I’ll take care of it, before I move out.”

Uthvir waves in acknowledgement. Feeling a certain sinking sensation of the thought of how few months are left until that happens. It’s just that they’ll need to find another tenant, of course, and it’s doubtful that whoever they come across will be as good as Thenvunin.

“I made breakfast,” they recollect. “Do you want some pancakes?”

“Oh,” Thenvunin says, blinking. He looks over towards the stack, and his cheeks colour, just faintly. “How nice! That would be lovely. Thank you, you didn’t have to go to the trouble…”

“It’s fine,” Uthvir assures him. They convince him to settle into his seat and take Lavellan for a few minutes, and listen to him coo at her and offer her his apologies for ‘disrupting her morning’, gently assuring her that Screecher is a nice bird while Uthvir heats up the pancakes, and slathers two stacks with butter and syrup. Thenvunin likes sweet foods, they’ve noticed. They put a little extra syrup on his, and then set aside the smallest pancake on a tiny plate, in case Lavellan wants to try chewing on it. She’s not quite on solid foods yet, but she’s begun experimenting.

This morning, though, she just fusses until Uthvir sets her onto her blanket again. Near to the heater, before taking their seat.

“I don’t think my car is big enough to fit a decent cage,” Thenvunin muses. The sounds of Angry Bird coming from his room eventually taper off. Uthvir pauses, as they hear the distinctive echo of Spider-Man whispering.

Talking to someone else?

It’s coming from Thenvunin’s room, too.

Talking to the  _bird?_

That’s… new. Communing with animals is definitely not usual of him.

“Hmm?” Uthvir murmurs, losing track of the conversation with Thenvunin. He sighs.

“Well, I suppose your friend Elandaris has a truck, doesn’t he? Perhaps he could help,” he says.

They come up short, and backtrack a little.

“Elandaris is  _not_  my friend,” they say, for starters.

Thenvunin cuts into his pancakes.

“He is trying to be, though. He told me so. I mean I’m not going to say it wasn’t the wrong thing, what he did, but at least he’s attempting to make up for it. And anyways, if you don’t want to talk to him, that’s fine. I’ll call him myself.”

Uthvir frowns.

“You have his number?”

“Yes,” Thenvunin says. “He gave it to me, the last time he came by. In case I needed help. Really, he’s not so bad when it comes to it.”

Of course he gave him his number. Uthvir feels a rush of unease, listening to Thenvunin talk about Elandaris being ‘not so bad’. The man is scum. Surely that’s obvious? Can he really not tell the difference between an honest apology, and a manipulative sleazebag?

No.

No he cannot. Thenvunin would be a mark, Uthvir decides. Rhapsody would have been pleased as punch to meet him. ‘More money than sense’ he would say. ‘It’s dangerous for a man like that to be over-burdened with resources, you never know what he might waste them on’. They scowl at their plate for a minute, and the conversation tapers off. Thenvunin shrinks in on himself, just a little bit. Taking slow bites from his pancakes, and glancing at them from the corner of his eyes.

“I really am sorry,” he says, at length. More quietly than usual. “About Screecher. I’ll try and get everything sorted as soon as I can.”

They pause, and realize that he’s read their unhappiness with Elandaris as lingering anger over the bird.

“It’s fine,” they assure him again. “But don’t call Elandaris. He’s not trustworthy.”

“I’m not sure…”

“The seats in your car fold down, don’t they?” they say. “How big of a cage do you need?”

“Pretty large,” Thenvunin admits. “Screecher needs at least enough space to stretch his wings out and move them around, even if he’s only sleeping in it. It wouldn’t be a travel cage, those are the smaller ones, you see. Though I should probably get one of those, too.”

Uthvir nods.

“Okay, well. I’ll help you fold the seats down, and we’ll see how much room we can make. If anyone needs to call Elandaris, it should be me. He’s trying to play you.”

Thenvunin blinks, rapidly.

“He’s trying to  _what?”_  he asks.

“Play you,” Uthvir repeats. “You’re rich and gorgeous and generous, and he thinks you’re a prime mark. He tried to get into my pants the first time we met, you know. I was nine months pregnant and he’d just ripped me off and put me in a terrible situation. Which should tell you plenty of things about his approach to problem-solving.”

Thenvunin’s jaw drops.

“He  _what?!”_

“So you see? Don’t call him,” they say. “I only call him because I can intimidate him into providing free labour. If he tries anything, by the way, just break his arm. He has  _no_  upper body strength.”

Thenvunin continues to look aghast.

Uthvir hesitates, a little.

“Not that you can’t look after yourself, of course,” they say. “But I figured you should know.”

The aghast look doesn’t really let up.

Tentatively, they reach over and pat the other man’s arm. His fingers curl, as they do. The bare skin of his forearm feels warm to the touch. He put on his purple button-down, they note. It looks very fetching on him, but they probably shouldn’t think too hard about that.

“Are you certain it wasn’t a misunderstanding?” Thenvunin asks them, brows furrowed.

They snort.

“ _Very_ sure,” they confirm.

“That  _weasel,”_  Thenvunin snaps, to their surprise.

“Oo,” Lavellan offers from her blanket. That seems to snap him out of the odd mood that’s gripped him. He turns towards her, and offers her a smile.

“Are you trying to say ‘weasel’, sweetheart?” he asks.

Which would have seemed like a ridiculous assumption to Uthvir before they had a baby, but now makes perfect sense. Lavellan repeats her noise, obviously pleased to have seized the spotlight, and they focus on eating some more pancakes and thinking about the problem of the car. They’re pretty sure they can solve it, though. Thenvunin doesn’t know a whole lot about vehicles, but Uthvir has lived in them for years at a time, more or less. There’s often more space to be made than people realize. They finish up breakfast, and convince Thenvunin to watch the baby while they head out to go switch the seats around.

Or just take them out altogether. That could work too, they realize, as they get the back seats folded flay, and discover that the front passenger seat just comes out when they push and pull the right combination of levers, and unhook a few things. They’re in the midst of moving it to the porch when they notice Spider-Man sitting in it.

_Go with Thenvunin._

They sigh, not in the mood.

“I have to watch Lavellan,” they say. “And he’s a grown man, he can go shopping for bird things on his own. Which is  _your_  fault anyway, so don’t even start.”

_Dumb bird makes Thenvunin happy._

“Were you talking to it?” they ask, before heading back to the car, to tuck the seatbelts away and close up the doors.

_Yes._

“It can communicate with you?”

_Demon bird._

Uthvir pauses.

The bird is an actual demon? Like, possessed? The unasked question garners a positive response. They frown, putting a few theoretical pieces together.

“You already know each other,” they guess. “Does Thenvunin know his bird is an abomination?”

Spider-Man shrugs.

Uthvir narrows their eyes.

“Is that how you knew about Thenvunin?” they ask. “You’ve been talking to this bird, or something, in the Fade?”

_No._

They’re not sure if they should believe that or not. Spider-Man doesn’t generally lie, but then again, he also doesn’t generally let random abominations or spirits or birds just hang around, either. And it  _would_  explain a lot of things that haven’t been adding up too well so far. Uthvir gives the doll a suspicious look. But when they glance away, Spider-Man has moved on again; and the car’s ready.

They head back inside, and show Thenvunin. When he agrees that it should work, they take the passenger seat temporarily inside. And find themselves staring at the door to his room.

 _Does_  he know…?

If the man keeps his own abomination around… surely he might not judge Uthvir so harshly for theirs, if he knew. Right?

They’d never considered the possibility of meeting someone else like them.

 _It doesn’t matter,_  they remind themselves.  _He’s leaving in a few months. He’s engaged. He’s getting married._

But… even so…

Even so. They might stay friends. That would be nice, Uthvir thinks. Maybe he’ll even invite him to his wedding, and they’ll get to see him in his dress. Walking down the aisle. Kissing this military man of his, the one who leaves him up at night, whispering argument on the phone or curled onto the couch with an empty box of tissues beside him, his cheeks red and his eyes wet in the reflected light of the television screen…

Uthvir’s not sure Sethtaren deserves Thenvunin.

They sigh at themselves, and turn to go scoop up their baby, and get started on cleaning the kitchen mess.

 

~

 

Thenvunin’s probably not getting enough sleep, he decides.

He keeps thinking Lavellan’s toy doll is moving around on its own.

Of course, it’s probably just that Lavellan tosses the thing around. It’s a light stuffed sort of doll, perfect for that sort of thing. And, well. Lavellan can’t quite sit up yet, that’s true, but he’s still seen her launch some of her soft toys fairly far, when she’s lying on her back or in someone’s arms. She’s got a good little throwing arm, he thinks, fondly.

That’s probably why it sometimes seems to end up in the strangest places.

Still… it gives him pause, tonight, when he gets into the bathroom to try and splash some cold water on his face, and finds it sitting next to the sink. The reflective material of its eyes seeming to gleam, and startling him enough that he jumps - until he realizes it’s just from the street lights filtering through the window.

He lets out a long breath, and shakes his head at himself.

“Pardon me,” he says, jokingly, and moves the doll over to the laundry basket. At least it seems to ease some of the tension still in his chest. He’d had to admit to Seth today that the money he managed to leave home with probably wouldn’t be enough to cover the kind of wedding they’d initially planned. Sethtaren… had been disappointed.

_Why are you spending so much? I know what your rent is, what are you doing, eating champagne and caviar every day? You’re going to get fat if you do that!_

It’s fair of him to be disappointed, Thenvunin knows. Who doesn’t want their wedding to be perfect? And Thenvunin  _had_  promised to pay for it, and he  _will,_  but… well. They’re eloping. Elopments are always a bit unideal, aren’t they? It’s not as if any of Thenvunin’s own family is going to be there. The guest list is all Seth’s. Unless he invites Uthvir, which he thinks he might. It would be a good gesture, to maybe try and ensure they stay friends even after he moves out. He would like that. He’s grown fond of Lavellan, and once he and Seth get settled, maybe they could babysit her sometimes. As practice for their own children. And Uthvir could visit, and help keep Thenvunin from getting too lonely when Seth’s on deployment. He’ll need that especially if his family doesn’t forgive him.

Which they might not. Though he tries not to think about that. He’s sure they will… mostly… mostly sure, but. He  _did_  leave. And Sethtaren isn’t as convinced of their forgiving natures as Thenvunin, is more certain that they were just trying to control him and don’t want him to have his own life, and all sorts of things. Thenvunin doesn’t really believe it. His family just doesn’t understand, they’re just over-coddling him and underestimating him again. They’ll see it’s alright after he’s married and has his own place and has a plan for the future. But…

He’s been wrong about things before, too.

Sometimes - lately - he’s even started to wonder if he isn’t wrong about Sethtaren. Not that he doesn’t love him, because of course he does. But maybe they’re not ready to be getting married after all?

It feels so foolish to say it, though. After all he’s done to get them this far, Thenvunin would be the worst kind of boyfriend to just call off the wedding  _now._

So he doesn’t really think it.

It’s just that they’ve had a fight, he reasons. It’s always hard when they have fights. But it’s normal, too. All couples argue. They have spats. They pick at one another’s flaws, and if Thenvunin always seems to have more flaws to pick at, then that’s just his own fault. He wipes his face, and lets out a long sigh. And feels a bit better, in the quiet gloom of the bathroom.

After a few minutes he wanders out. His bedroom seems particularly lonely and empty right now, his phone still lying where he’d dropped it onto the sheets. He opts to head for the living room, instead, and turns on the television. Lowering the volume down to next-to-nothing, so that he won’t wake up the baby, and wrapping the blanket from the back of the couch around himself. He finds a PBS wildlife documentary about penguins, and watches it until he starts feeling thirsty. Then he leaves it on in the background while he heads to the kitchen to make himself some tea.

He keeps one eye on the kettle, to make certain it doesn’t whistle too loud, and hears Uthvir’s door open.

Thenvunin glances over. They’re alone, and they offer him a wave as they head to the bathroom.

He hesitates, just a moment, and then goes and retrieves another mug from the cupboard. Sometimes they’ll sit up with him, if they’re not too tired. Of course, they might just wander back to bed, but still. A warm drink could help. They were up all last night with Lavellan. She’s started in on her teething, now, and while it isn’t at the ‘worst’ stage - as Thenvunin understands it - she’s been fussing more and having troubles sleeping through the night. Poor thing.

After a few minutes of shuffling around the bathroom, Uthvir comes back out again, and heads into the kitchen.

Thenvunin perks up, just a little. They always look so different when they are sleep-mussed. Their hair goes positively  _everywhere,_  and their faded, grey pyjamas hardly seem warm enough for the weather. Which is probably why they tend to cart a blanket around with themselves. He gestures to the kettle, and when they nod, makes them up a cup of tea, too. They like the same lemon-and-herb blend that he does, though they don’t take any honey in it. Thenvunin helps himself to a heaping spoonful, before bringing both hot mugs carefully to the table.

“Is Lavellan alright?” he asks, quietly.

Uthvir nods.

“Still sleeping,” they confirm. “The teething rings in the fridge worked good. Thanks for the suggestion.”

“I’m pleased it worked,” Thenvunin replies.

Uthvir gives him a sidelong look.

“Are you alright?” they ask.

Why should they ask that? Casual concern, or… he feels a sudden lurch of unease. Was he too loud on the phone? Did they overhear?

“Perfectly fine,” he says. “I just… miss Seth, that’s all. It’s going to be hard, I think, having him be away so often.”

Uthvir swallows, and then nods their head. They rest their fingers near to the heat of their mug.

“You should tell him,” they suggest. “Maybe get him to think about another career path.”

Thenvunin shakes his head before they even finish the sentence.

“I couldn’t. That would be manipulative,” he reasons.

Uthvir tilts their head.

“How so?” they wonder.

Thenvunin pauses. Trying to find the right way to explain.

“I knew Sethtaren was going to be a soldier when we met,” he reasons. “And he’s happy at it. I think. If I try and use my worry to get him to stop, then I’ll just be manipulating him.” He feels a sting, an echo from the first and last time he even attempted such a thing. Seth’s accusations still ring in his ears. His anger that Thenvunin would ‘play games’ or trying to use his feelings to change who Seth was. It wasn’t what he’d meant, but still. It’d been a mistake.

Seth had forgiven him. The topic hadn’t come up again.

Uthvir seems skeptical.

“I mean, you  _could_  be manipulative about it,” they concede. “You definitely could. But you wouldn’t have to?”

Thenvunin just shakes his head, though. And after a moment, they offer a shrug, and let the subject drop. Their eyelids seem inclined to follow suit. Thenvunin hopes they’re not feeling  _obligated_  to sit up with him, as they linger in silence for a few minutes, while the tea cools. He moves his chair over towards the window. The better to look out and see the television, and also to give Uthvir an invitation to leave, if they want. Since they are not the sole focus of Thenvunin’s attention. He remembers his mother’s etiquette lessons, even if it often seems like most of the world never bothers with such things.

Uthvir just stays pout, though, and eventually starts taking a few sips of their tea.

“I just think he’s a very lucky man,” they say. “I hope you two are happy.”

Thenvunin glances at them. His hands tighten around his own mug, and he feels… conflicted.  _It’s the fight,_  he tells himself. It’s just because they fought, and because things were so hard even before all this, what with his family’s disapproval and all.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

At least his own situation is not like Uthvir’s. He can scarcely imagine it. Uthvir has not said much about Lavellan’s other parent, except to clarify that they are not in the picture in any way. It makes Thenvunin confused and angry just to think about it. It takes two people to make a baby, and admittedly he doesn’t know the details, but Uthvir’s been working  _so hard_ to make ends meet. Thenvunin has seen them, they scarcely seem to rest between looking after Lavellan and trying to find odd jobs and things to do in order to make money. They’ve been working hard at trying to learn to sew, too, and they keep the house clean and always treat Thenvunin fairly, always try to fix things, even if it all seems on the verge of collapsing in on itself at any moment.

Who would just leave them like this?

It makes him so angry. Some _heinous ingrate,_  he thinks. Whoever it is does not even send a cheque.

He is still stewing over these thoughts, over Uthvir’s problems - which are, admittedly, a bit easier to stew over than his own - when he realizes that the blanket is slipping down from their shoulders. As Uthvir makes no move to right it themselves, he looks over, and realizes that they’ve nodded off. While his thoughts were wandering, they’ve all but fallen asleep over their tea.

He gently straightens the blanket, wondering if he should wake them to send them to bed, or if it would be better to let them rest where they are.

 _Maybe just for a while,_  he decides. Not the whole night, goodness no, they’d probably get a crick in their neck. But for now. He sips his tea and watches the steam from theirs cool, as penguins slide around on the distant, flickering television set, and the refrigerator hums nearby.

Something glints from the corner of his vision.

Thenvunin looks, and pauses. And freezes up for a moment, as he sees Lavellan’s Spider-Man doll. Sitting in a corner of the kitchen nearby, angled facing towards him.

Wasn’t… wasn’t that in the bathroom?

Thenvunin feels  _sure_  he put the doll in the laundry hamper.

Uthvir went to the bathroom, though. Maybe they brought it back out? And… dropped it onto the kitchen floor? But why would they do such a thing?

The doll’s eyes gleam. Thenvunin can’t figure out the angle of the light that must be hitting them, though. He swallows, and some of the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. Before he manages to let out a long breath, and shakes his head at himself.

Over-active imagination. Isn’t that what his teachers always used to say? Uthvir was tired, they probably meant to put the doll away somewhere else and then just… dropped it by accident, while Thenvunin was busy making tea.

“Spying on us, hm?” he murmurs quietly, just the same.

The light shifts, and in his over-active imagination, it almost looks as though the doll  _winks._

He really does need to get more sleep, he decides.

 

~

 

Husband has been away for too long.

Screecher is often thinking Husband has been away for too long. Is a serious problem. But there are many a kinds of too long to be knowing. There is a Too Long for when Husband sleeps in the dark ground, and comes back and is a Hatchling again. There is a Too Long for when Husband goes away during daytimes or sundowns, and Screecher must wait all the hours but is also being building nests and finding gifts for Husband, so, life is not so bad.

And then there is a Too Long when Husband is going away and is telling Screecher  _no followings._

This is the second worst Too Longs. Screecher is blaming Bad Elf for this business.

And Small Red, who is cannot be found  _anywhere_  which is no good and Screecher is not approving of this. Now Screecher is being kept in company of Snake-y One and Husband has met Bad Elf again and there is not Small Red to make him bleed. Screecher is doing their own best to make Bad Elf bleed but this is being get  _spray bottled_  by Husband who does not understand and Screecher is not like to be scolded.

And Bad Elf is not letting sharp talons in his eyes. Even though he should, because he is deserving them.

Screecher is not liking this Too Long. Not at all. Bad Elf is could be  _hurting Husband,_  this is many unacceptables. Screecher is making to break out of Snake-y One’s gardens and make a rescue, but there are many Bad Spells and Bad Distractings, like treats and things which make Husband sounds and look like Husband but are just Liar Pictures that cannot do groomings.

Screecher is making to plan Masterful Genius Break-Out which is flying many times into walls until they are breaking, when Snake-y One is coming, after Husband’s Too Longs is already Too Long, and is putting Screecher in the Mad-Making Cage which is for to go to Bad Evil Vets. Screecher launches many objections, but Snake-y One is good at magics and is saying  _shush_  like Husband’s tone and then putting sleeps on things. So Screecher is napping, unexpectedly, and is thinking to wake in Bad Evil Vet place.

But instead, is waking in Outsides.

Snake-y One makes to open cage.

This is an unexpected developments.

“Alright,” Snake-y One is saying. And Screecher is listen, for one minutes, because of Unexpectedness. But only for one minutes! They is going to find Husband now! Snake-y One does not make to catch them again, though. “Go find Thenvunin, Screecher. Lead the way.”

…Hmm.

Snake-y One is maybe having more sense than Screecher had for thought. Nearly as much as Small Red, maybe, which is one half of Husband sometimes.

Screecher is not needing to be asked twice, though, because now is  _Finding Husband Time!_ Which is making a search! But Husband is not dirt-sleeping and Screecher is be knowing this, so now is a doable thing. Making to find Husband is just lots of flying. Flying in air and also in other places, towards point where is Husband Feeling. Screecher goes, fast as can be, because now is time also to make Bad Elf be Dead Elf and protect Husband!

Much flying!

Very cold. Is not good weather, Screecher is maybe get turned around and is  _frustrating_  and also makes to hungries. Snake-y One is a follow, which Screecher will be allowing on grounds of being a helpful and good at murders too, and also for bringing foods which Screecher is eating and waters for drinking on break times. But then Screecher is making a fly and is getting all turned around in storms and is a  _blizzard._

Husband is need to live in the warms! Husband is not even having enough feathers for blizzard places! Screecher is protest this!

Also is getting lost.

But only for a small whiles! But is enough for Snake-y One to be going away.

This is not Screecher’s fault, though, because Screecher is only going to  _Husband._  Is Snake-y One’s business what they is doing. No one is make to embarrassed. There are many winds!

And then.

_Then._

There is  _Husband!_

Screecher is finding Husband! And is ready to be making a maulings for Bad Elf, but there is no Bad Elfs. Screecher is finding a house which is too smalls, and there is a Small Red. Which Screecher is not glad to see! Except that maybe Small Reds is been killing Bad Elfs, and this is acceptable. Small Red is a Two Reds, though. Screecher is thinking at first that Small Red is Even Smaller Red, has been making a bad home in soft nesting things, but then Smaller Red is letting Screecher be insides and there is also Other Small Red.

There is being  _two_  Small Reds!

With Husband! Small Red is Double Interlopers!!

Screecher is only maybe a TINY bit happy to sees them again but this is only because Small Reds are being better than Bed Elfs and sometimes also makes Husbands happy and Screecher is a  _magnanimou_ s _._ This is all the reasons. Small Red has been a  _stealing Husband_  again and Screecher is not forgiving them and they is been having A HATCHLING and Screecher is not thinking they could do this so fast but there is already babies to be looking after and Husband has is been  _seduced!_

Is not good news!

But is maybe also not bad news.

Screecher is not having been missed Small Red, but Small Red is make a  _useful_  sometimes.

So fine.

Screecher is being  _nice,_  but also more importantly there is HUSBAND! And Husband is making scoldings because he told Screecher  _no following,_  but Husband was gone Too Long and so is not matter. Screecher is make a groomings and have reunions! Husband will come and live in a warms place now with Hatchling and also Small Reds maybe fine. This is an obvious thing that must happen, Husbands is having  _pains_  when places are too cold!

But then Husband is locking Screecher in small bad room and is  _leaving_  and Screecher is not like this! Is another Too Long!

Screecher makes to protest! Small Red must be opening bad doors!

Small Red is  _useless!_

Screecher takes back all nice things ever thought for Small Reds! Evil door will be broken and Screecher and Husband will take Hatchling and raise her in Best Nest and they will make Small Reds make to grovel to be allowed to sleep in  _spare corner_  and eat  _bad sour lemons_  for all the breakfasts! Both of them! For all the years!

Screecher makes to  _many threats_  but Small Red is not opening the door. And then Screecher is getting tired, from many flyings and no more foods and waters. Soft inside nestings have a Husband feel, so Screecher is making them more suitable and then taking a naps. Only to regain strength for breaking door! And making long journey home!

Is a long time until Husband comes back. Many hours. More than two at least.

An agony of separations, so soon after reunions!

And Husband is bringing a  _cage_  into small shabby garbage room in stupid tiny inside place that Small Red has given him. Screecher is not liking this! Husband is making groomings, though, and is giving many kisses and praises and Screecher is maybe being bamboozled but is impossible to resist because  _Husband._  Who is also putting blueberries inside cage and is giving chewy sticks and also water and Screecher very many thirsties.

This is how Screecher is end up in Terrible Horrible Small Cage!

Small Reds is coming to make a gawk.

“This is a small cage?” they mock. “It’s taking up half the room.”

Ha ha  _very funny_  Screecher is going to _bite_  Small Red on finger places.

Maybe.

…Maybe not because Husband will be making Upsets but  _maybe anyway!_

Screecher is mad. So mad. Mad enough to make Husband give apologies. Husband is ran away and have Hatchling with Small Red and is leaving Screecher behind and is making Screecher be in  _cages!_  Husband is - Husband is  _mean!_

Screecher is taking all the chew toys and is breaking them and spitting the bits on carpets, and make to rattle the cage, and tell Husband off! And then Husband is  _leaving_  and apologies  _are not finished_  and Screecher is making even more noises for BETRAYALS!

_Stupid bird._

Smallest Red is putting soft fluff body into room near cage.

Screecher makes to spit bits on it.

_Smallest Red is stupid!_

_Stop making so much noise! Noise upsets Baby!_

_Husband is not finished making apologies! Bring back Husband!_

_Thenvunin is in the bathroom. Stupid bird. He is coming right back._

_Smallest Red is one who is stupid! Cannot even keep own self straight!_

Smallest Red is going then, but Husband is coming back! Screecher forgets to be angry almost and makes happy greetings for new reunion, before remembering that Husband is a  _mean_  and is  _making to grovel!_  Then Screecher is spitting more things and chewing on bars until Husband is finally OPENING CAGE and is bringing Screecher out for groomings and pettings.

“You have to be quiet,” he is saying. “I know, I know, I am so sorry, I know. But I only left you because I had to. And you cannot keep making this racket, Uthvir has been very nice and patient with all this, even though you gave them a terrible fright. But they have a baby. You know babies, Screecher. You have to be  _quiet.”_

Husband rubs feathers and makes apology noises and is giving more blueberries.

Screecher is deciding apologies are sufficient. Now more cage and many pettings. Screecher is returning pettings and groomings and is letting Husband know he is forgiven. But no more cages! When Husband is make to put Screecher back in Screecher is launching a Protest! Husband is saying things about houses but Screecher is not caring, is not going back into cage, no! Husband is taking them out of room instead after a while, and there is Small Red and Hatchling.

Screecher wants to say hellos to Hatchling! Make reunions!

But Husband is being clingy and is not letting Screecher go.

This is alright though.

Small Red is still afeared. This is also alright because Screecher has not made forgives to them! Only Husband! Small Red is never making sufficient grovelings, though. Is very strange. Maybe because of being put in two?

Oh well. Screecher is thinking this is not important, for now. Husband is wrapping Screecher in towels, which is making Screecher think of vets, but then is only sitting in chairs and making Screecher be held in one hand while Husband has dinners. Small Red is feeding Hatchling. Hatchling is look at Screecher, and Screecher is saying ‘hello’.

“What was that?” Small Red asks. “Is it being aggressive?”

“No, no,” says Husband. “Screecher likes babies and children, I promise, that was just a ‘hello’.”

Small Red is all the stupids. Is make a  _slander!_

Screecher is not mean to  _hatchlings!_  Screecher is very good at make to parent! Has raised MANY Hatchlings! Stupid Small Red. Husband is making noises and is having suppers and Screecher is waiting for opportunity before managing a wiggle-free, to go see Hatchling. But Husband is not having it; Screecher is barely getting towel loose before Husband is catching them and saying  _shushes_  and  _no’s_  and  _being mean_ again!

Screecher is not even allowed to say hellos to Hatchling!

Small Red is  _tyrant!_

When mealtimes is finished Husband puts them back in stupid boring room. Screecher is mad again, but then Husband makes more apologies, and is getting more forgiveness. Is probably Small Red’s fault anyways. And Bad Elfs. Husband does not put Screecher back in cages, but does not open door for to go outsides either, and is saying Screecher must do business on newspapers.

Screecher makes serious thoughts of  _not_  doing business on newspapers.

Maybe Screecher will do business on  _Small Red’s head._

But Husband is saying  _pleases_  and so Screecher is thinking maybe, because of reunions, of only doing business on newspapers. For now. Because there are also no Small Reds in here, either. And then Husband is nesting down and is saying ‘what did you do to my blankets’ and Screecher is explaining that nest is  _much better_  now and they are having many naps in the dark. Is warm and good. Reunion is official and Screecher has found Husband again!

In the morning times, too, Smallest Red is opening  _bad door_  and letting Screecher outs!

So maybe possibly Smallest Red has some of the smarts.

Maybe.

 _Be less noisy,_  Smallest Red is saying.

 _You are not boss of me!_  Screecher is replying, and then is making Good Morning noises! Or is starting to, but then Smallest Red is  _sitting on beak_  and this is unacceptable! How dare!

_Shut up dumb bird! Or I will not open things for you anymore!_

Screecher is not needing stupid Small Red to open things, Screecher will open all the things! Smallest Red is a  _small_  and Screecher only needs be making some moves and then Ha! Has caught Smallest Red with foot!

_Stop that!_

No, now Screecher is the bigger than a Small Red! Time for Smallest Red to make a fly! Screecher is sending stupid fluffy red all the way across a rooms, but then is hearing door opens. Other Small Red is coming out, then, in their sleep-muss. Screecher is seeing Hatchling, too, and is make a quick and zooms into room! Hatchling is in tiny Baby Cage. Small Red makes many noises when Screecher lands in it, and Screecher is barely making hello-cuddles when Small Red is grabbing them and saying all the  _no’s._

Small Red is  _rude_ and grip is  _bad._

Screecher will bite! Maybe! Definitely is making a think of it!

But then Husband is coming in and taking Screecher and saying all the scoldings, and then Small Red is saying things, and Screecher is trying to see Hatchling and is being subjected to more  _slanders_  until Husband is finally come to the defenses!

“Screecher wouldn’t hurt her,” he says. “I promise you. Most birds wouldn’t be safe, I know, but Screecher is… it’s just, it’s different.”

Yes.

Screecher is the Best Bird of All Times, is why.

Small Red is making suspicious faces, and then is looking to where Smallest Red is lurking in corners. And then  _finally_  Husband is letting Screecher go, as Small Red is saying ‘okay’, and is going to make hellos to Hatchling. Small Red is being greedy and is holding her the whole time but Screecher is just make a scolding noise, and then is seeing Eldest Hatchling’s big eyes looking for all the curious. Screecher fixes a curls on Hatchling’s head and makes a nuzzle, and is getting feathers pulled because Hatchling is a Hatchling and Small Red is  _useless_  but then Husband is coming to the rescue and making Hatchling grabbers not pull so hard. Or poke at eyes.

And Small Red is going ‘oh’, and then is also moving a hand to pet Screecher.

Screecher is a magnanimous and permits this. Only because of Husband! And also because maybe Small Red is making apologies, too. Many are needed! All the leavings and becoming  _two things,_  very inconsiderate business and Screecher was not  _missing_  Small Red but is maybe was a bit sad for a little while sometimes. Once. Not even for one whole hour though, because Small Red is interlopers! Who stole Husband! Again!

When Husband picks Screecher up again, though, Screecher is feeling a calms.

Family.

Family is good.

Husband makes to nuzzles, and is giving Screecher a treat. And Screecher is turning and giving it to Hatchling, because Screecher is  _good parent,_  and Small Red is not allowed to forget this and make bad wrong sayings!

Small Red is taking the treat though and giving it back to Screecher.

 _Germs, dumb bird,_  Smallest Red says.

What?

Is blueberry, not  _germs!_

Screecher takes the nice feelings back, Small Reds are all the ingrates!


End file.
